Chapter 11: Iggy Astro's Zodiac Attack!

Camera flashes reflected back by Iggy Astro's night-black sunglasses were bright, but his cutting grin shined brighter. The spellbreaker's affect and demeanor was cold and untouchable, like the distant reaches of space, whilst all around them Las Vegas' 'finest reporters' peppered them with incessant queries.

A swarm of microphones jutted out into their face, like the obscene protrusions of lesser men who thought they could score with the 'Human Supernova'.

"Iggy Astro, what do you think about the new dangers of atomic energy?"

"Iggy, what's your opinion of the Tsar taking advantage of the power vacuum left behind by the collapse of the Alban Empire?"

"Is it true you're dating fellow spellbreaker, El Amante? Do you fear a non-traditional relationship might upset the conservative market?"

"Iggy Astro, the public needs to know—boxers or briefs?"

Iggy's pink-painted lips turned upward in a half-snarl. He held up a black-manicured hand, commanding silence. "Thank you. Your questions bore me. Las Vegas' journalistic integrity is lacking." They scrunched up their nose. "And one of you smells like chicken soup."

The rockstar-turned-fighter really just wanted to turn around and retreat to their dressing room, their sanctum, and shut these idiots out. These weren't hard working truth tellers, but all corporate leeches, parroting irrelevant questions. Of course Iggy had honest answers for all of them, answers he chose to withheld. Atomic energy would ensure a more environmentally sustainable future. The Tsar was a fool clinging to a bygone power, like all tyrants before him (and any child of the Enchanted Revolution in Brazil keenly would agree). And if the concept of two male assigned people in love turned the stomachs of the spellbreaking fandom, then maybe they didn't deserve this sport to begin with!

But to throw these hounds a bone wouldn't be keeping with Iggy's character, and wasn't life (and spellbreaking) all about performance? 

A clean-shaven pencil necked reporter somehow shoved their way to the front of the line. Iggy, in a purple leather jacket with studded shoulder pads, sighed and motioned for them to speak.

"Iggy Astro," the little geek said, "there's been talk that a representative from the Institute of Glyphic Studies will be in the audience tonight. Many would say you're one of the most powerful light magi around..."

"Damn right about that," Iggy spat. Hmm. Suarez is here, eh? Heh. Looks like I will put on a show after all. The elusive researcher in question was a friend to spellbreakers, as well as one of the few souls outside the sport that Iggy genuinely respected.

"Would you say there's any merit in spellbreaking when it comes to glyphic research?" the nerd followed up.

Iggy flicked the stupid query away as if it were a bothersome fly. "Without a doubt. We elevate the power. We're not just athletes and performers, but expert weilders of magick as well. Got it?

"Just one more question, then, if you would! A lot of people are saying Sailorboy Spike is the next biggest thing in spellbreaking. How do you feel about your fight against him tonight?"

!!!

Iggy smirked. With an elegant wave of their hand, they conjured a neon blue stick figure resembling a little sailor man—if one squinted hard enough that is. Iggy, sticking his (very longue) tongue out, grabbed the figure by its neck and bit its head off in one swift motion! A geyser of neon red blood spray covered the shocked and disgusted reporters, who promptly backed off.

But, just to drive the message home, Iggy grabbed the little twerp 'journalist' by the neck and raised him several feet off the ground. Admittedly, the spellbreaker enjoyed watching the idiot's feet flailing and kicking, as if he thought he could escape!

"THAT'S what I think of this little sailor boy," Iggy growled in the struggling man's face. "Thousands of years ago, a meteor ended almost all life on this planet. And TONIGHT, THIS star is going to make the Sailorboy EXTINCT."

He dropped the red faced, choking man before he could do any personal damage. That was enough to force the reporters retreat. Iggy, legitimately annoyed, recomposed themselves with a glitter-producing hairflip. 

Turning to enter their dressing room, Iggy cleared their throat and looked coquettishly over his shoulder. "Oh, and and to answer your question...thongs, darling. Thongs. Who do you even think I am?

With that, Iggy shut the door on all the useless noise behind them.

 

"A meteor ended the life of the dinosaurs?" Iggy said to their own reflection, incredulously, as they applied a generous helping of eyeline. "Me Deusa, that was a bad line..." 

In his pink, velvety dressing room, Iggy Astro sighed, staring at the hunk in the reflection, stroking the mirror like Narcissus beginning to question his self worth. "My sweet, beautiful self, where has all the passion gone? The lyricism? What is the point of all this folly!" He tossed his makeup down in a rut, and buried his face in his arms, exhaling deeply (and dramatically) into the linoleum countertop.

For three years, Iggy Astro's spellbreaking rise had been...well...meteoric. Now, however, Iggy was beginning to feel like a star burning out. It had been ages since he'd faced a worthy opponent, let alone an interesting one. These days, he felt like a trained fight-dog, being thrown meat and scraps by Colt the 'Bolt'. 

But where was the art? Where was the collaboration? The passion? All these silly little boys and girls Iggy had fought recently had their heads up their own asses, just trying to get ahead in their career. They were beige. He was pink. At this point, he would gladly settle for a chartreuse, or electric orchid, or even a navy blue!

Perhaps I was naive thinking this would be any different than the music industry, Iggy lamented as they absently turned the neck of the champagne bottle sticking out of the ice bucket. The only thing this career had given them recently—though granted it was a pretty nice prize—was a longtime partner. But El Amante was perpetually busy, and a lover of many. Their relationship was infinitely complex, and Iggy was not defined by it. 

There was, of course, the option of going back to Brazil and getting Vanity Paradise back together, but that would mean upending life all over again. And that sounded rather exhausting. 

"I just feel like I'm not doing anything meaningful with my life!" Iggy groaned operatically, arguing with an invisible audience. "Sure, I could probably become champion. But what's the point? I'm not doing anything to advance this sport, or my own art. Hmmm..." they looked at themselves. "Perhaps I need a protégé? Hmmm. HMMM...."

Though Iggy would never vocalize it, he was dreading tonight's match. More of the same song and dance. Go out there, be a delicious snack for the audience, break some underwear model's arms and make them cry, be a dick. Sure, there was always room to interject a little bit of melody into the affair, but Colt—bless his extraordinary, cowboy bulge—had asked Iggy to 'turn down' the rock and roll aspect of his performance. 

It's a fight, Astro, not a damn rock concert!

Iggy grit his teeth together and squeezed his fist down on his lipstick tube. That bossy cowboy. Turn it down? Nobody tells me to turn it down! If anything, Iggy Astro only turns it UP. TO ELEVEN! Gahhhh, if he wasn't such a juicy piece of Texas BBQ, I'd....I'd...

He sighed. He couldn't even complete an internal monologue! Perhaps he'd take his frustrations out on that prettyboy pinup tonight. A good punching bag always hit the spot, no? Still, there was something about that stupid little sailor twink that Iggy couldn't put their deliciously manicured finger on... 

Annoyed with their 'spellbreaker's block', Iggy clapped their hands. "Inspiration! Now!" They turned to their record player on the table. Iggy's runner always specified 2 - 3 of the same records in every dressing room. Though their musical appetites were voracious, Iggy was still a creature of habit, and he always had the old favorties close at hand. Iggy pulled the record out of its sleeve and placed it on the player. He dropped the needle.

The velvety, slightly distant, ethereal voice of Astrud Gilberto crooned out of the machine. "Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars..."

A sea of tranquility washed over Iggy. He leaned back and let the sound of guitars carry him away on its moonlit waves. Old faces, old places, returned to the forefront of his memories. His father, slicing up oranges on a hot, summer day. Mother, in the study, grading papers and complaining about her students or the government. The radio on in the background. A samba on the sea breeze. Yet, beneath the music, a frequency only his parents could hear—their ears ever listening for a breaking news update portending to disaster. Another revolt. Another coup. More fire. It was, after all, from the literal fires of revolution that Iggy—once Inácio, now Ináci—was born.

A knock at the door threw Iggy out of their daydream. "Who dares?" they shouted dramatically, glaring at the door. "Hmph."

The friendly face of a balding, stocky security gaurd smiled back at them. "Sorry, just saw this was open and wanted to make sure it was closed." The dark skinned man smiled graciously at them.

Weird. I thought I shut that. "I see," Iggy sniffed. 

"Say, is that the Astrud Gilberto cover?"

Iggy raised an eyebrow. "Hmm?"

The guard seemed like the dowdy family man sort, the kind that Iggy absolutely loathed. But there was a youthfulness and light in his eyes. "I thought it might be," he said. "I love that one. I know people hold Sinatra sacred, but I think I prefer her take on it better."

Iggy shook his head in disbelief. They scanned the gaurd's aura, finding a cool electricity there among the gentle colors. He was good. 

"Well...finally, someone with good taste." Iggy turned his body, willing to engage. "It's my mother's favorite."

"My wife's," the man said, chuckling. He nodded affably, but minded not to cross into the room. "I'm Grant Partridge. Head of security. Let me know if you need anything."

Iggy cocked their head to the side. It was always the most unlikely souls that he enjoyed most. "Will do," he said sincerely. And though it was not exactly becoming of a badguy spellbreaker... "Thank you for looking out for us, Mr. Partridge. You do good work."

"Just doing my job," the humble man said. "Have a good match, cousin." He closed the door behind him.

Iggy stared at the shut door for a few seconds, certain he'd closed it behind him to rid themselves of those annoying reporters. He shrugged and turned around. The song ended. The vibe was off. Iggy, lusting for inspiration, sighed anew. Speaking of auras, one of Iggy's seldom used talents, that Spike characters was all over the place. When Iggy had observed them outside the Dionysus Lounge, playing boyscout to a dancer who clearly didn't need a muscle twink to defend her honor, Iggy had taken the opportunity to scan their spiritual luminosity. Spike's soul was a sea of constantly undulating greens and blues, someone who was not yet set in their ways, who did not yet know themselves. There were flecks of orange there too, like the embers of a new fire. A surprisingly strong light for someone who didn't seem as if there was a lot going on up top. They were like a parcel wrapped in delicious mystery. 

And Iggy would enjoy peeling it back, tonight. They licked their lips. "Sex and fighting. Two great ways to get to know a man. I will smash that little beefcake open and see how they tick." Turned on by the sight of himself acting cocky, Iggy flexed his chest muscles for himself in the mirror. "I wonder if there will be anything left of them to put back together! Hahahahaha! Oh, we have fun, don't we, Iggy..."

His eyes suddenly fell on a newspaper—opened onto the daily horoscope page. He had been lazily reading it earlier, hoping for some good cosmic vibes under the sign of the ever-shifting scales. 

Ah, the zodiac. The most noble of all the constellations. I daresay it is foolish to think that the stars might hold our destiny, and yet, one cannot help but... 

Suddenly, the closed-fist of the muse struck him up the side of the head. They had been knocked dizzy with inspiration!

Iggy grabbed the newspaper, scanned it for meaning, and placed it down. A wicked grin crossed their lips, as they turned dramatically to face their own reflection.

"Oh, but what dark portents do the stars have for you, my delicious Sailorboy." They laughed evilly. "Your destiny is not written in the skies, Spike, but in the blood I will draw from your gaping wounds! Hehehehe. Oh, I'm such a bitch..."

The Kiss of El Amante Intóxico! Part 2 - Love's Avenger

"IT'S SNIP SNIP TIME! HAHAHAAHA!"

With his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a rabid dog, and shears snapping maniacally in the air, El Peluquero walked the ring, hungry to sink his scissors into his opponent's hair. Wrist tapped and clad in red and black tights, he eyed the bag of barber tools—razors, electric shavers, an assortment of other scissors—nestled up to his corner post. The thought of unleashing his little goodie bag on an unconscious, defeated, and humiliated El Amante Intóxico practically made him hard!

The crowd in the humid El Paso auditorium had gathered to see El Amante challenge Peluquero. Even though it was a last-minute card, the event had filled up so quickly that an impromptu barbeque had been set up outside the back for all the fighters and attendees. It was smaller venue, to be sure, but the atmosphere was positive. But Peluquero would have never chosen such a backwater dump if it didn't mean getting to humiliate his pretty boy nemesis in front of all of his adoring fans!

El Amante's fans, who he affectionally called his "Lovers", booed loudly at El Peluquero, but nobody shook their first harder at him than Icarus, his most recent victim (and one of El Amante's pupils). He had since covered up his forced buzz-cut with a blue cap. He had chosen a white button up and blue pants, a modest outfit in keeping with his upstanding and polite character. Several older women in the audience nodded to him in approval, wishing he could be their son or nephew.

Iggy, wearing a tight fitting, pink crop top with the big, black 'C*M SLUT' across the chest, yawned. They were more interested in the greasy bag of churros they'd bought earlier (they had scalped an El Amante fan outside by selling him one of his used night shirts, and so felt inclined to a little treat).

"Wanna see me fit a whole churro into my mouth?" Iggy asked, holding up a big stick of cinnamon. He winked at Icarus.

The baby-faced fighter grinned awkwardly. "Er...no thanks?"

"Boring." Iggy deep-throated the delicious confection in one bite. They tossed their dyed, pink hair back over their shoulder. "You excited to see my hunky boyfriend make an ass of himself on your behalf, pipsqueak? Ah, but what an ass it is..."

"I will always support my mentor!" Icarus said, proudly. He looked at the bag in Iggy's hands. His stomach rumbled. "Um..."

"What? Good little doggy want a treat?" Iggy dangled the churro just over Icarus' head, tantalizing him with the promise of sugar and fat. With zero hesitation, Iggy stuck out his (distractingly long) tongue and licked the stick up and down, sexually, before holding it out to Icarus. "You still want it?"

Without missing a beat, and maintaining eye contact all the while, Icarus leaned in and bit the tip of the churro, snagging the rest before Iggy could pull it away. 

Iggy blinked. "...Oh meu Dea!" they exclaimed, hand to their chest and jaw open in amused shocked. He gave his annoying sidekick a flirty glance. "I think I'm actually starting to like you, good doggy."

"The feeling is mutual. Now, let's watch my teach kick this bad doggy's tail!"

Iggy and Icarus fist bumped in agreement.

Back in the ring, El Peluquero stretched his arms across the ropes, tugging and bracing like a vicious animal tethered to the post. "My scissors hunger for the hair of El Amante Intóxico! Where is the boytoy!? I wanna BREAK HIM!"

"Looking for me, chulo?"

The villain's loud challenge was drowned out by a steamy, sensual, reggaetón beat and an accompanying change of light. Soft pink and purple tones breezed over the audience, and even the mood in the room altered from tense excitement to indulgent desire. From out of a rainfall of translucent rose petals, a dashing—and physically imposing—silhouette materialized at the entrance arch. 

El Amante Intóxico, a warrior with many epithets, stood tall and proud. The Warrior of Love. The Violet Scorpion. The King of Romance. Victor. Whatever the name, the muscular hero, caped in rich fabrics of vermillion, citrine, and turquoise, bowed deeply to the crowd, stretching his hands out likewise as if to embrace the affection returned to him. The tecnico luchador rose from the ground and walked the aisle, high fiving and shaking hands with his beloved supporters. A blown kiss knocked over a trio of female fans with the force of a gale-force wind. A wink in the direction of a male admirer caused him to pass out on the spot. Such was the potency of El Amante's power!

"Hello, beautifuls," the masked stud said to the camera as it swivelled around his luxurious form, still concealed within the folds of his robes. Behind, the camera man swallowed and became instantly erect.

In-ring, El Peluquero scowled and spat at the ground. How dare this nuisance strut around and preen like a peafowl, wasting his time, delaying the inevitable? He would be shaved bald for such insolence! 

El Amante Intóxico politely wiped his boots on the ring apron before sliding slowly, and sensually, through the ropes. After another dramatic 'kneel-and-bask', El Amante stood and tore off his fantastic robe.

GASP!

Speaking of peeling off, the audience peeled off into screams and moans, watching the buff, muscular, and oiled-up El Amante strut his stuff. He turned and danced in step with the music. A little two-step here. A bit of male revue there. A whole lotta' bachata. El Amante wove it all into an erotic display of masculine beauty and physicality. His thrusts weren't the juvenile jack hammerings of a selfish lover, but a gentleman who knew how to please his lovers.

For that was the secret (or at least, one of many secrets) and Love's Champion. His was no gimmick. Seduction was his sword, and compassion his shield. He wasn't in this fight for pride or ego, but to right a wrong done to someone he cared for deeply.

Plus, his lover was there to watch him look good kicking ass!

El Amante stopped and cupped his ear to the audience, motioning for them to give him more love. They gladly did so, in abundance. In return, El Amante pivoted around, jiggled his (distractingly large) glutes, bent over, and tore off his pants.

In the audience, Icarus clapped one hand over his mouth, looked down at his lap, and cupped the other somewhere more urgent. "Oh..." 

"Get used to it, kittne," Iggy said, trying to hide the fact that he was madly in lust. 

"Wait, is it doggy or kitten? Can you be consistent?"

Iggy looked over Icarus, before he pulled him into a headlock, kissed his face, and whispered into his ear as Icarus struggled to breathe. "It's whatever I want it to be, twink. Got it? Now, watch the show."

"H-h-harder."

Again, Iggy's expectations were thwarted. He let Icarus go. "Heh. Maybe later."

As El Amante flexed and preened for his watchful many, Peluquero stood back and growled. Only he appeared immune to El Amante's charms. In fact, he snarled and foamed at the mouth even harder. How dare this little sissy get all this attention! 

But that killer body... 

No! Peluquero shook the very thought from his dark mind.

El Amante's trunks were coordinated with the colors of his robe and mask, a butterfly design. He made sure the audience got a good look when he teasingly circled around and began to pull his trunks down—in a strip a tease—showing off his lucky red thong, giving the audience behind him a hint of his bare, bubble butt. Just a hint. 

"I gave him that for his birthday," Iggy whispered in Icarus's ear.

"You can't be a total villain then," the younger luchador said, tugging on his collar to release steam.

"Just doing the Goddess' work, kitten."

The dowdy, pot-bellied ref—who had been watching at a safe distance—finally approached El Amante for the pat down. El Amante allowed it, but not before striking a seductive pose in the corner, complete with a rose in his mouth (...nobody had noticed where or whence he had produced the flower)

As soon as the ref was satisfied (he had been chosen as one of the few refs in the area who could put up a resistance to El Amante's powers) the gracious luchador plucked the rose from his mouth and offered it to the ref.

The older gentleman looked at it for a moment. "Oh...that's...nice of you?" He did, however, politely accept the gift, before walking off to the center of the ring.  "Nobody's given me flowers in so long. How thoughtful!"

El Peluquero approached his prey with a fiendish hunger. He licked his lips, sizing up the luchador's long, luxurious hair, hanging tantalizingly over his massive pectorals. "Look at that stupid, girly mask!" he spat. "What, too scared that I'd snip-snip your precious family heirloom?"

El Amante crossed his arms, giving the photographers his 'signature' pose. He would spare El Peluquero his attention when he was good and ready. "Hmph! I have no fear of wearing the mask of my father, and his father before him. Nor do I fear anything womanly—for there is no shame in being a woman! Besides, I prefer pretty accessories. Soft things look good on such a hard body, no?" 

El Amante leaned towards his opponent, flexing gracefully in a bodybuilder's posing sequence, turning each time to a different quadrant of the room, which likewise exploded into cries of excitement (as well as more...intimate reactions). 

First, the arms--bulging biceps, triceps, and shoulders.

"I am from a proud line of fighting men, who have known both heroism and villainy, hope and despair!" 

Next, the back. Rippling like a stormy sea.

"This mask you see was created by the son of one of the greatest spellbreakers ever known! And was fabricated by none other than my talented cousin, who shares the spellbreaking legacy of my family!" 

The legs followed: quads, thighs, calves, that would make lovers and foes alike tremble to behold.

"Friends. Family. They are whom I hold most precious, and whom I will always protect! I draw power from them!" 

And finally, the pecs. BUT! El Amante didn't just give the crowed a simple pec bounce and flex. Oh no. He wowed them with a full-on climactic, orgasmic 'most muscular pose' set, which culminated in El Amante roaring and sticking his tongue out like an Aztec warrior of yore.

"Just as the scorpion sheds its skin, so too does the caterpillar become the butterfly. I am El Amante Intóxico, Love's Champion! I transform despair into love, and love into strength!"

At this point, those with heart conditions had already left the room on advisement of the production staff, with little old ladies and aunties collapsing in the aisle, swooning in deep adoration. The venue had to crank up the AC just to keep the room temperature down! Hardy men fainted, or otherwise found their sexualities changed in an instant, with complete and total acceptance of themselves (for that is what El Amante would want). In the rapturous and frenzied lust brought on by El Amante's flexing spree, two soccer players in the back of the audience immediately pounced on each other and began making out, madly confessing their unrequited love for each other (they would go on to be married in months. El Amante would received a lovely card and bouquet for his efforts).

"Yeah he does this sometimes," Iggy said nonchalantly to nervous Icarus. The light magi crumpled the empty churro bag into a little ball. I should put bird boy here to good use and have him fetch me some more.

The bell had already rung, but both luchadors were happy to take their time sizing each other up and otherwise intimidate the other. The magnanimous and magnificent El Amante took a gentlemanly knee in front of his opponent. He held out a single-stemmed rose (again, nobody knew how it had suddenly appeared it in his hand) to his opponent.

"A token of sportsmanship," El Amante said with bright, watery eyes. "We may be opponents, but that does not mean we cannot be amigos!" He cocked his head slightly to the audience. "Or perhaps...something more?"

The audience cheered. "Take the rose! Take the rose! Take the rose!"

El Peluquero pointed innocently at his chest. "F-f-for me?" he said, looking at the audience for approval. He scratched the back of his head, shyly, and took the flower in his hands...

Before shoving the rose blossom into his mouth and biting down on the stem! The mad dog Peluquero chewed up the generous gift and then SPAT rose petals right on El Amante's handsome, masked face.

The audience gasped at the unsportsmanlike display. But nobody gasped more than Iggy Astro. "Oh no!" they whispered. Then, their face contorted with sadistic mischief. "Or should I say, 'Oh yes?'"

"What?" Icarus asked them dumbly. "He just...spat it out into teach's face?"

"Your 'teach' has his limits, doggy. He prizes honor and compassion. And now...he has been crossed." Iggy shivered. "Oh, I cannot wait to see my big stud put the hurt on this fool!"

Patient, and without taking his eyes off his opponent, El Amante wiped the saliva-soaked petals off his face. He stood.

Peluquero pointed and laughed. "HAHAHA! What a sap! What a moron! Oh, you think you're scary trying to tower over me? EAT MY FIST!" 

The long-haired dastard shot a lightning-quick punch aimed right for El Amante's aquiline nose, an attempt to break it off and disfigure his foe. Nobody could dodge a punch like that, not even El Amante!

And he didn't.

Because he caught it instead.

Peluquero stared in wide-eyed horror, trying to free his hand from El Amante's iron grip. The blank-eyed luchador's face remained unchanged as he tightened down harder. Peluquero heard his knuckles start to crack. He grimaced.

"I shall transform your pride into humility!" El Amante shouted. "You cannot hope to defeat love!" 

He dragged the barbarous barber's meaty forearm forward and dropped to his knees, picking him up in a fireman's carry. Peluquero didn't even have time to react, finding himself spinning on El Amante's shoulders and then tossed through the air like a sack of garbage.

SLAM! 

El Amante went for a rope dash, bouncing off with graceful fluidity. He would plant an elbow of love and justice on the evildoer's face or chest (El Amante would figure out which when he got there...)

But Peluquero tougher that El Amante suspected. He dove out of the way at the last minute, allowing the luchador lunk to hit the canvas and hit his elbow painfully on the hard surface! El Amante cried out, just as his rival got back onto his feet.

"Idiot!" Peluquero snarled, kicking El Amante's head, rattling his brain. The audience reacted likewise. Music to the bad barber's ears!

Still, El Amante shook it off, making a stunning recovery. He struck a confident pose, earning him more of the audience's favor, recharging his power. "That all you got, villain?"

Out in the crowd, El Amante's studious sidekick applauded for his teacher. "This is a good show," he said to his mentor's lover.

"My matches are much more interesting," Iggy pouted, haughtily. "But...I do not deny that my masked man is a stellar performer." They winked. "In a ring, or a in a bedroom."

Chest slicked with sweat, and matted, curly hair sticking to his collar bone, Peluquero blew a stray lock from his face. He shook with fury. "Time to step into my barber shop, prettyboy," he seethed. "Let's give you a complimentary shave!"

El Amante's eyes darted towards the villain's bag of tricks propped up against the corner post. It moved, opening of its own volition. A series of objects shot out from the top like bullets, faster than El Amante's eyes could follow. They soared through the air, coming to a circular orbit around their master's head. A straight razor. Another pair of scissors. And...was that a surgical knife too!? The sharp bladed glinted in the ringside lighting, matching the cutting grin of their owner.

"A metal user!" El Amante declared. "How exciting!"

"That studly bod of yours ain't gonna look so pretty once it's cut into ribbons!" Peluquero laughed evilly. He sent out his blades, shooting through the air like arrows. "What's loverbody gonna do now? Oh, that's right. BLEED!"

El Amante knew some basic boxing techniques, and his footwork was excellent by virtue of having been a dancer. He dodged the first knife with expert precision, earning him an "OOH!" from the audience. The scissors, snapping like the jaws of an alligators, darted right for his eyes. El Amante flipped back and bridged—indirectly showing off his amazing bulge as he did. He recovered, stood, and blew his opponent a kiss.

He did not like the way Peluquero was still smiling...

SHICK!

The pain was sudden and sharp--hitting El Amante just as he realized his error. The metal user's blades could be retracted back at their user's commands. As El Amante turned to avoid the straight razor, the knife dug deep into his bulky shoulder. A spray of blood—violet in the soft pink aura surrounding the luchador—splashed the mat.

The assault didn't stop there! The barber tools swarmed El Amante like angry bees, diving in and slicing at his flesh with each successive strike. It was a death by a thousand little cuts! The perfect sadistic torture. 

Iggy and Icarus leaned forward in distress. "No!" 

"Enough spilt blood," El Peluquero started, "and you'll pass out! And then...your pretty hair will by all mine!" He stepped forward and demanded the ref go to his opponent's side to ask him if he wanted to to throw the fight! Passed out or awake for the humiliation, the luchador's hair would be his.

The ref glanced nervously at the blade swarm, a blur of silver and red. El Amante was in that swarm somewhere, on his knees, bracing and groaning against furious slashes.

"I'm not going in there," the ref said to the heel.

El Peluquero snarled and grabbed the middle-aged man by the collar, but he let go as soon as he realized he still needed him to call the match. "Fine!" he said, snapping his fingers.

The blades dropped to the ground, in a pool of violet blood. Hair draped over his head like a veil, El Amante trembled on hands and knees, dripping blood onto the mat. 

Peluquero drew close, ready to pin the cut-up hunk. 

But El Amante stood! As did the crowd likewise go to their feet to applaud. They shouted out words of encouragement to their icon.

The sweaty and bloody luchador dusted off their shoulder, as their wounds healed with the blessing of the soma elixir both fighters had taken before the match. "Pierce my flash and sunder my skin, foe. My blood runs red with passion!"

"How's he doing that?" Icarus asked Iggy, stupefied. "How could he withstand the pain and bloodless?" 

"Pure determination," Iggy said. He smiled. "That's my boyfriend."

"Geez, Iggy! If he could tame a heel like you, he could probably tame anybody, right?"

"Who said he tamed me, punk?" Iggy shot him a dark look, but retracted it. "Heh. You're his apprentice, so I'll let you on a little secret. I'm not really a villain you know. El Amante's ideals are in line with mine. To fight for that which you care and adore...there is no greater human endeavour. We make a good pair, him and I. For he is the guardian of love, and I am the guardian of beauty! I guess you could say we're the disciples of Venus!"

"Hey, that'd make a good tag team!"

"Hmph." Iggy gave it some thought. "Actually...credit where it's due, bicha, that's not a half-bad suggestion..."

Back in the ring, a shocked and (now scared) Peluquero took one step back.

"How...are you still standing?"

"What, you think your little scissors could tear down a hunk like me!" El Amante grinned and bounced his pecs up and down, in an almost hypnotic fashion. "You want scissors? I'll show you scissors!"

El Amante used the power of surprise to jump into the air and wrap his legs around El Peluquero's neck in an acrobatically impressive setup for a hurricanrana. Peluquero had no defense! With the sheer power of his tree-trunk legs, El Amante used the moment to flip his nemesis over and slam him down onto the mat. 

"Ugh, my neck." Peluquero shook his head, trying to recover. He needed to get away! Screw the rules! Peluquero rolled out beneath the bottom ropes and onto the floor to put distance between himself and his opponent.

"Where do you think you're going, bastardo!" El Amante pointed at the dazed brute struggling to get to his feet outside the ring. The luchador smiled. He turned a shoulder to the audience and made a 'heart' sign with his hands.

"This is..." Icarus said, realizing the setup. "He's gonna..."

El Amante pivoted on his boot heels and ran towards the ropes, bouncing off to get the momentum he needed. "Fly swift, Cupid's Arrow!" he said, diving through the ropes in a tope suicida, sailing through the air towards his target!

"What?" Peluquero said as he turned around just in time to see a missile of muscle careening towards him. "OH SH--"

WHAM!

A light show of rose petals and broken hearts burst forth from the dynamic collision. The blast force knocked Peluquero clear into the crowd. A group of angry uncles booed and covered the dizzy-eyed heel in their beer. Iggy, a few rows away, chucked his crumpled paper ball from the churro bag at the villain's head. He'd enchanted it too—upon contact, it planted a comical, glowing bullseye on his head.

El Amante, who had landed among the audience, stood up—towering over his admirers. In awe at this god among them, and unable to contain their lust, they began to claw and tap his beautiful butt.

"It's ok!" El Amante said to his admirers, winking. "You can touch El Amante!" He flexed for them, giving his fans what the wanted. Three separate hands began to paw and clamp down on his biceps, accompanied by gasps and moans of approval.

El Amante gave his admirers one final blown kiss before he looked over at his beer-soaked opponent , noticing the target. "What?" He recognized that light graffiti. He turned to give a disapproving look to his lover, a few rows away. Iggy whistled, pretending he hadn't done anything. 

El Amante sighed. "You heels are such trouble!" He reached down and grabbed the dizzy and delirious barber by the hair. He tossed him over the barricade as if he weighed nothing. El Amante climbed over in pursuit, stopping only to make sure the handsome daddy behind him got a very good look at the red thong strap sticking out of his muscle butt, before he hitched up his trunks and moved in on his enemy.

Peluquero sailed through the ropes and back into the ring, landing painfully on his back. El Amante wasn't just quick, but powerful too! And the more love and admiration he absorbed, the stronger he got!

"Do you feel the love now?" El Amante said, stepping over the ropes. He did another little strut for his audience, shaking his butt for the finish. "Do you see now, villain? I give everything to my admirers. The love they give back is precious. It fuels my being! Heh, it even fuels my muscles." El Amante flexed his bicep and gave it a kiss. "Mmm...peaky."

Sweaty hair fanned out around him on the mat, Peluquero tried to raise his head. He had been shaken up good. "You...damn...prettyboy!"

El Amante stepped over his downed opponent, boots planted on either side of him. He placed his hands on his hips and looked down. "Shall I finish you off? Perhaps I will not cut your hair off if you apologise nicely." He traced his pupil's aura—his 'love connection'—and found him among the audience like the brightest star in the night sky. He pointed. "Apologise now to that prince of the skies, whose beautiful hair you cruelly robbed!"

Icarus pointed to himself and mouthed, me?

Yes, you! El Amante mouthed back. He made his 'heart' hand gesture again. I love you!

Icarus' eyes rolled back in adoration. Next to him, Iggy's eyes also rolled back...out of annoyance.

"Take this!" Peluquero shouted, bolting up. He clawed the back of El Amante's trunks, hoping to get a solid grip and pull him down to his level. He'd wail on his stupid face until it was so puffy and bruised that it would bulge out of his mask's eye holes!

But Peluquero overshot his mark. Instead of pulling down El Amante, he pulled down his trunks instead. And not just halfway either. 'Lucky thong' and all came unfurling down faster than the lucahdor could catch. And that wasn't the only thing the audience section directly in front of El Amante saw unfurl...

The audience gasped, shocked at this display of nudity (which would be far too arousing to describe here). Then...something else happened. An entirely different type of crowd pop. For to behold El Amante in the peak of his activated power was a one way ticket to...

"OhhhHhhHHhhhhHHHH!!!!"

It was a pop alright. And El Amante's audience popped huge.

"Yeah, we're gonna need some towels in section C through J," a frazzled PA said into their headset as they darted past the ring. "Uhh...and a mop. Oh my goodness..."

Blushing, and genuinely embarrassed to see his love magick work too well on the crowd, El Amante tried turning around to hide his...power. "Oops," he said to the ref, shielding his eyes from El Amante's...glory.

Instead, El Amante accidentally revealed himself to the other side of the room, while those in the first section who had somehow avoided—'reacting' to El Amante's charms were now pushed past the limit from the sight of his beautiful, sculpted, wide, perfectly proportioned, unreal muscle ass.

The other section erupted (in multiple meanings of the word). This time, El Amante had the foresight to hitch up his thong and trunks. "Er...sorry, folks! Didn't mean to do that." Guess they got more than they paid for...

In any case, it was time to seal the deal and end this match. Before Peluquero could squirm away, El Amante dropped down and mounted him catching him by the throat.

"You..." Peluquero choked. "No, I will resist!" He expected his opponent to start choking him, or even break his trachea. Which was why he was surprised when the expected fear was instead overridden by a sudden wave of complete and total calm. He looked up into El Amante's soft, dark eyes.

And he could not hope to tear himself away.

Everything became soft pink and hazy. Peluquero's nose took in the smell of the sweaty El Amante Intóxico's cologne mixed in with his own masculine musk, his 'intoxicating' pheromones. Unable to help himself, Peluquero grew harder.

"Yes...chico. My love venom courses through you..."

That...luscious hair, he thought looking how perfectly El Amante's gorgeous, long locks tumbled over his heaving pectorals.

I wanna....put it in my mouth.

El Amante spoke softly to his opponent, even as he began to slowly position his arms around his throat and side of his head. "You are drunk on me now. I see into your soul, mi amor. A sad, scared little boy who grew up being the bad guy because he thought it would make him strong. To humiliate others and rob them of their beauty just so he could make himself feel more attractive." He winked. "Which is silly, because you aren't an ugly looking guy at all." He stroked Peluquero's chin with his hand.

A wave of pleasure welled up inside Peluquero. But more than that, he felt like he'd genuinely been complimented. Overcome with emotion, Peluquero's eyes teared up. "You...you mean it?"

"I am not a rudo, mi amor! I tell no lies." El Amante laughed softly, kissing the man's forehead. He bit his lip and then played with the rudo's hair. "Still I think you'd look good with...a little off the top?"

Peluquero felt himself as the precipice of ecstasy. "Oh, El Amante!" he moaned. 

"Kiss me, guapo." El Amante said, positioning his lips closer to Peluquero's face, his hands tighter around his throat and neck. "Surrender to El Amante!"

"No....I can't!" Peluquero tried to resist, reminding himself of his own reputation! To go from the villainous barber to one of El Amante's....boy toys. It would be a humiliating defeat, of the highest degree!

Plus, his hair...his beautiful, precious hair that all the babes loved to play with! He couldn't lose that!

"Mi amor..."

But then Peluquero, like Orpheus and so many other mythic fools before him, looked where he shouldn't—right back into El Amante Intóxico's bewitching eyes. Suddenly, defeat looked so much sweeter.

And those big, full, kissable lips...

Peluquero surrendered his mouth to El Amante's finding it completely covered by his opponent's. The luchador kissed soft, but firm. And deep. Peluquero felt his mask against his face, and the luchador's tongue exploring every inch of his mouth. El Amante, the warrior of love, would not let him go...nor breathe.

Peluquero didn't even object—not at first anyway—when he found a tightness around his throat and head, and his head begin to swim with dizziness as the bloodflow to his brain was slowly cut off.

It wasn't just a kiss. It was a kiss-of-death sleeper!

But El Amante would certainly take exception to that name. Because it was not to oblivion he consigned his foe, but to the realm of erotic reverie!

"Shhhh...." El Amante said, clamping down harder as he felt Peluquero's slightest resistance and struggled. "Let me take you to the land of sweet dreams. And then, I shall take your hair."

N-no, was all Peluquero could think, before he found his vision start to blur and his brain flooded with endorphins. He passed out. 

But El Amante always liked to keep on kissing...just to be sure. The ref leaned down for the three count. The bell rung. But El Amante kept the hold on. 

The ref cocked an eyebrow and scratched his bald head. "Hey...er....you done yet, big guy?"

With one final squeeze for good measure, El Amante pulled himself off. "Wow! What a kisser!" 

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" Peluquero snored.

El Amante looked down at this unconscious, drooling opponent--who had a smile on his face. "Huh! He snores as loud as mi amor, Iggy Astro!"

"PUTO!" Iggy shouted from his seat in the audience. "I'll remember that!"

Finally, El Amante stood up to the sound of his theme music, doing a dance over his downed opponent, who twitched with pleasure in his deep slumber. It was another cheeky humiliation from the luchador of love, strutting and dancing over the KO'd evil-doer! El Amante happily bent over and pulled his trunks down, just a little, wiggling his butt inches away from the drooling loser's face. Too bad he wasn't awake to behold such beauty! To top it off, El Amante took a still-intact bud of the rose blossom he'd tried offering Peluquero earlier and gently stuck it between the villain's lips.

"Since you like the taste of my bud so much," El Amante said with a flirty wink.

Finally, El Amante motioned for the ref to hand him the tools of Peluquero's trade that he had so wickedly tried to use on love's champion. El Amante removed a sharp, but simple, pair of scissors. "Hmmm...seems easy enough. I don't have much cosmetology experience, but..."

Icarus turned to Iggy. "He's...not really going to cut his hair, is he?"

The pink-haired rockstar giggled devilishly. "He's going to teach him a lesson!"

The ref shrugged and exited the ring. As far he was concerned, his job was done. El Amante however, gleefully mounted his opponent's back as if Peluquero were a show pony. He yanked his chin up into position and went above snipping off the long locks, watching them fall to his shoulders and the canvas. He picked up a piece and held it under his nose.

"Hmm. You must tell me the name of your conditioner! Hehe. But something tells me that speech has failed you, lover."

When he was last done with his lopsided haircut, leaving Peluquelo's gorgeous mane a tangle of snarls and different sided chunks of hair, the luchador motioned for a smitten ringside staff member to set up a small, standing mirror in front of the fighters. Satisfied with that, El Amante pulled his KO'd opponent up beneath the arms.

"Is he gonna clutch him?" Icarus asked his minder.

"No," Iggy smirked. "Better."

El Amante repositioned himself so Peluquelo was cradled in his arms, with the luchador's massive legs tightly hooked around his waist. Now, it was much easier to see the size comparison between the buff tecnico and the wiry rudo. El Amante began to kiss at his sleepy opponent's neck, and his hands wander slowly down his obliques and abs, gentle caresses.

"That's it, mi amor. The sweetest dreams..."

Whatever the ruthless fighter was dreaming about, it looked good. His eyelids fluttered, and drool ran down his neck while his body twitched. El Amante's hands fastened themselves on Peluquero's stubby cock, as he began stroking him slowly and smoothly.

"There we go, badboy. I wonder what you dream of? Is it El Amante taking you, mounting you, making you his?"

"Nnn....ugggg..." Peluquero cried out in his erotic slumber, a moan escaping from his lips.

"Right on time," El Amante said. As the speed of his strokes increased, bringing his opponent to the edge of ecstasy, the powerful lover clamped his free hand down on the side of Peluquero's neck, giving him a wake-up nerve pinch.

"OHHhhh. El Amante. Papi, yes!"

El Peluquero's eyes flitted open as he reached the point of climax, inadvertently locking eyes with his humiliated, ridiculous haircut as he shot a fat, white load all over the image of himself looking first in rapture. His tights overflowed, stained, as he involuntarily surrender his seed. He stared helplessly, in red-faced, embarrassed horror, as he orgasmed to his own ridiculous appearance.

His "OHHHHhhhhs" quickly became a "Nooooooo!" Peluquelo looked down to see he had shot pearls of milky fluid all over the pile of clippings of his own beautiful hair. Utterly defeated and brutally humiliated, Peluquero—the once-proud terror—burst out into pathetic sobs.

The audience laughed at his predicament, while El Amante sat up and strutted around. "Justice is served!" El Amante declared proudly, flexing for the enjoyment of all.

"I'll show you!" Peluquero spat through the sobs. But he couldn't even get to his feet! Between the beatdown and the beating off, he was completely useless. "I'll come for you and your boy-toy's hair next! How dare you take my beautiful hair!"

"Oh?" El Amante said, raising an eyebrow. "You don't like it, amigo? How rude! I went through all that trouble cutting your hair and this is how you repay me?"

El Amante shoved Peluquelo's head between his thighs, before the man could hope to wriggle himself free. He hoisted him up, Peluquelo's face now buried—and covered completely—by El Amante's massive bulge.

"MMMFFFF!!!!"

"You are hardly a man!" El Amante declared, walking the swinging, suffocating rudo around the ring, completely emasculating the villain. He gyrated his hips, stripper-like, rubbing his revered bulge all over his opponent's face. "This is a man."

El Amante carried Peluquero over to the messy, sticky pile of hair, holding him above it. "I gave you your chance, villain. Your reign of terror ends here! No longer will you take beauty from this world. It's LIGHTS OUT FOR YOU!"

El Amante jumped into the air, with Peluquero's ridiculous head tucked between his thighs, and DROVE his cranium right into the pile of his own hair and cum. Between the blow to his spine, and the blow to his ego, El Peluquero's days of robbing promising young upstart's of their hair were over.

Love's champion had dealt his justice!

Chapter 10: Blood Frenzy

Endless green stretched onward in all directions, interrupted only by pocket marks of trees and brush. Cian turned his eyes towards the blue skies, trying to find a single cloud among them. He smiled. Content.

"...Yer gonna go blind starin' at the sun, ya big dolt."

The dark-haired boy looked like a younger, scrawny version of his brother. Unlike Cian, Connor never did exercise much restraint on his tart tongue. Clothes in needed of a washing and ironing, and face streaked with dirt from the day's menial labors, Connor stopped alongside his brother--on the crest of the hill--and looked beyond the treeline, over where the village lay.

"Mag is gonna give you a smack or two with your face looking like that," Cian snorted, cuffing his brother gently on the shoulder. "'Course, no amount of washin' will fix what the gods gave you, boyo."

"Come off it," Connor spat. Of course, he wasn't about to challenge his much stronger brother.

The two brothers walked down the slope towards the grasslands. Only a ranch enclosure, some distance away, proved to Cian that he Connor weren't the only residents of this great, green sea. A regal, white horse ran inwards from the edge of the gate.

Connor noticed it too. "What a beauty," he said. "Hey, what was that story Mag used to tell us about the magic horse?"

Cian tried to recall. Mag, when she wasn't on the sauce, cold spin a yarn that would make even the gruffest of the men in the caravan sit down and listen for a spell. She still believed in the old gods, and had passed this down to Cian, who likewise discretely practiced the ways of worship.

"Aonbharr Mhanannáin," Cian said, recalling the name in the old tongues. "Or Enbarr. The steed of the gods. Could gallops across the skies and the sea, and was faster than the wind."

"Would make a good spellbreaking name," Connor suggested.

"Eh? Would it? I dunno. I think I'd just keep my name as is. I'm not some showboat loser like most of those arseholes. I take fightin' seriously." He didn't want to admit out loud to his brother that it wasn't a half bad idea. 

In any case, Cian nodded towards the path up ahead. "Mind how you go when you get down there. I hear Willy's Boys have been jumpin' folks as they go to and from the village."

"Aw, as if they'd try to pull a stunt like that on us," Connor said. Connor had a bad habit of getting into fights, expecting Cian to end them on his behalf. "I hear Powell's been going hard on you in battling."

"The bruises didn't tip you off?" Cian looked towards the heavy stones on the side of the dirt road—menhirs, engraved with circling spirals, just like the subtle tattoo on Cian's thigh. Vestiges of 'Those Who Came Before', so they said. Didn't look like any bandits hiding behind them today. Then again, the faebrand was common in bloodlines around here. They could easily be disguised, invisible to the mind's eyes. If they could hold their magick for that long, that is.

Connor yawned, not a care in the world. Perpetual bliss. "Can't you just hide your bruises with your magick? If I were you and had your powers, I'd make myself a whole lot more good looking."

"Don't work like that," Cian sniffed, resisting the overwhelming urge to pick his brother up and toss him down the hill. He looked down at his arm, concentrated, and made it look as if the composition had turned to stone, just like the menhirs in the valley below.

"Woah!" Connor said, too late to catch himself. "Er...I mean, I guess that's impressive."

Cian smirked. He didn't want to show off too much, aware of Connor's feelings towards magick. As the seventh child of a seventh child, the faebrand—or the glyph Cogito—was supposed to be passed on to Connor. Instead, it showed up one child too early, with Cian inheriting it instead. As their father, thankfully long gone would have slurred to both of them, both of their births were cursed. An inconvenience. 

Of course, if there's anything the O'Rourke boys knew by now, is that life seldom worked out as planned. On the contrary, it had only seemed to get more difficult the more of it they'd lived...

"You gonna teach me how to box or wrestle someday?" Connor asked his older brother. "Since spellbreaking ain't in the cards..."

"Sure. Once we're in a better spot."

"Agh. And when will that be?"

"Heh. Always around the corner. Speaking of corners, Powell wants me to go up in a bare-knuckle style match against one of the Sullivan boys from the other caravan."

"Lady Leithe and Mother Aethrin almighty, Cian! Mag is gonna do at lot worse than knock your teeth out if you come back home with a shiner, ya know! But...I guess if you use your magick, you can hide it from her, huh?"

"Hmm. Yeah. Speaking of which, maybe we can curry favor with Mag and pick up some milk on the way back," Cian said absently, turning towards the west. "How much did the foreman give you to..." he stopped.

The sky had changed, in a flash, from cerulean blue to ominous dark. A red, angry hue ran throughout, like veins of blood in the linings of the clouds. Where rolling fields of uninterrupted green had once spread out moments ago, the grass now drank the blood of hundreds and hundreds of naked corpses--some clad in rudimentary armor--strewn about the battlefield. A bloody light glinted off the hilts of spears and swords. In the center of the corpse arrangement, a lone—nigh inhuman—figure stood.

He was naked, like the rest, but a covering of bear or wolf hide ran the length of his broad, muscular back. He clutched a long spear, dripping crimson, in his muscular arm. The warrior turned, revealing himself from the font. He was white as marble, unblemished save from the scars of battled, and looked to be be carved from white stone as well. Knotted muscles. Sculpted abs, and a chest that ran with coarse, dark hair. Nary a thread on him save for the fur, his manhood swinging firm between his legs, something that could rival the length and girth of the spear he clutched. His hair was coal-black and matted. His face, unusually beautiful, in contrast to his hard, masculine physique, with eyes like rubies in fire. He breathed heavily, like a beast injured, or primed to dig its jaws into a fresh kill.

Cian gasped. He couldn't compel his legs to move. All he could do was stare at the war god, a primal yearning in his chest. He was overcome with the most basic of instincts: fear, but underneath that, something more shameful. Desire...for something distinctly forbidden. 

"Connor," Cian said, suddenly remembering where he was. His brother's safety, always his top priority, he regained control of his senses and turned to where Connor still stood. "Thank ye gods."

But there was something wrong. Connor, pale and wide-eyed, choked out, "Cian..." He looked down.

Cian's eyes followed Connor's to the ring of red mushrooms that encircled him. The grass beneath wilted in rapid time, transitioning from blood-stained red to dark brown, crumbling away and revealing solid granite. The great spirals of the Shining Ones ran the length of the stone landscape.

A fairy ring. Cian's heart jumped inside his chest. "Connor...keep your eyes on me. Take a step forward."

"I'm sorry," Connor said, before a swarm of solid, black shadows peeled off the ground around him. They swarmed.

We will take this one. Yes! We will take this fair one. Fear not, brother dear, we will keep him forever young...

"Connor!" Cian shouted, as the shadows became like hands, clawing down onto Connor's arms, legs, and face, and pulling him into the pool of solid black.

Gone. Nothing. Not a trace.

Cian stood in wide eyed horror. "This...this can't be happening."

"Oh, but it is, boyo." 

Cian swallowed, in cold fear, and turned to see the crowd of haggard, tough-looking men gathered around. Their leader, the bald one with the solid gold tooth, sneered at Cian.

"Poor, little fairyboy," Powell said, spitting onto the gray stone. "Not strong enough to save your brother. Not strong enough to escape your pathetic situation. Not much of a man at all, really!" Powell laughed cruelly. "Have ye learned nothing?"

Anger boiled inside Cian's chest. He made to move forward and show his battling coach what-for. Suddenly, the hefty man's body burst into tongues of fire. Charred clothing and flesh peeled away, revealing the form he hid underneath: the dark, grinning façade of Vahni Rage. Behind him, one of the other boys contorted into the distinct, ghoulish shape of Semyon Grigorivich, Cian's old boss. Next to him, most distinct, the sunken, yellowed eyes of Cian's drunkard old man.

Now Cian only thought of running as fast as he could from the men who had brutalized him, all in their own poisonous, distinct ways, physically and mentally. Instead, he found his legs immobile. He looked down. They had turned to stone. Worse, the stone transfiguration was spreading, slowly consuming his knees, and now his hips, transforming him into solid rock.

"Semyon!" Cian shouted. "Da! Powell! Help me!"

The twisted forms, chittering with distorted, mocking laughter, all conglomerated as one. An abominable shape. A monstrosity. It spread itself across the spiralling landscape, like a cancer. 

As the stone corruption paralyzed Cian up to the neck his eyes turned, pleadingly, to the figure in the distance―the red-eyed warrior. But he remembered what he was capable of. All that violence and all that rage, untethered, as to soak a whole countryside with blood...

"You can't even help yourself," the evil mass buzzed, in the guttural voices of Cian's guiltiest abusers. "Try to, and create more suffering for yourself! Pathetic. You should do us all a favor and--"

Chapter 9: Sky-High-Rollers

Having lived in New York for most of his life, Spike was used to urban sprawl, sky scrapers, and the frenetic energy of the city. But if Upper Manhattan was an aloof gentleman dressed in gilded, art deco statuary, then Las Vegas was his Technicolor, wild, more modern cousin. The ‘Atomic City’ wore its aesthetic proudly on its signage, welcoming the spellbreakers of the GSA—travelling aboard state-of-the-art monorail—into the heart of the floating Babylon. Neon archways dappled with star bursts and atomic whip cracks crowned rows of casinos and hotels. The monorail passed by a massive billboard depicting the perfect, 'nuclear' family smiling at a logo of an apple as an atomic nucleus, surrounded by concentric electron pathways. Atom and Eve Industries, Spike caught as the monorail zipped by. 

Spike glued his face to the window. He felt like a kid again. Next to him, a TV screen built into the back of the seat flickered a black-and-white reel educating visitors on Las Vegas’ infrastructure and modern energy grid. Spike’s squirrel brain picked up on bits and pieces of information, such as how the mono-rail ran on a series of loops—not unlike the electron pathways of an atom—and how the nuclear reactor sat in the heart of the city, helping to keep it afloat. There were no gas or diesel powered automobiles allowed within city limits. Everything ran on atomic engines, demonstrated by a clip of haz-mat suited atomic mages handling and irradiating special ‘cores’. The clip concluded with a voice over proudly declaring: “Atom and Eve—Bringing you the world of tomorrow…TODAY!”

It wasn't long before the monorail docked at the casino row, letting out starry eyed spellbreakers onto the cool, neon lit evening. The general mood was mixture of excitement, fatigue, and hunger. In any case, Spike was more excited than nervous now. He hoped the excitement of being in a new city would reinvigorate him.

A row of palm trees, flanked by dazzling water fountains, led the gang into a stately hotel with an ancient Greek façade—like the Parthenon by way of an amusement park. Colt, positively giddy, stepped to the front of the line (doing nothing to dispel Spike's “teacher on a school field trip” accusations) and extended his hands out to his sleepy-eyed wards.

“That’s right folks, we’re staying in the Olympus Hotel! You can thank Mr. Salim Netjeer—that’s one of our investors—for this treat. Seems he had a grand ol’ time at the gala.” Colt’s eyes darted towards Spike for the briefest of seconds. “Er…you know, besides the part where a chandelier crippled a lady. That was all a bit awkward. We might have gotten more cash if not for that part too...”

This statement was met by a slew of blank, incredulous faces.

Colt's approach to putting his foot in his mouth, of course, was to power through. “Err...anyways, Vegas! Y’all can settle into your rooms and take a load off. Just mention your name at the front desk and they’ll take you to your suite. And for those competing in tomorrow night’s match, don’t get too drunk now, you hear! Now, be on your best behavior. Daddy’s gonna hit the slots…”

After marvelling at the spacious lobby, full of white marble, Grecian urns, and—yes—even more fountains—Spike excitedly checked himself and Kengo into the front desk. His excitement waned, however, when he discovered that his and Kengo’s room only had one queen sized bed.

Spared no expense my sweet, bubble butt. Spike frowned. Looks like Salim's generosity had its limits. Nevertheless, he thanked the toga-sporting reception staff and allowed the bell-hop to take their bags to the elevator.

“Rosa said that every suite has its own theme after a Greek god,” Kengo said as they reached their floor. Their room was only a few feet away.

Spike picked up both of their suitcases. “Wonder which one we got. You have the keys?”

The suite door was painted black, with a ruby-red diamond in the center, and a silhouette of a three-headed dog. Kengo opened the door onto a moody, soft-lit room decked out in blue velvet carpeting, a black leather sofa, and a Gothic canopy bed. Unlit candles and candelabrum dotted the tables and furniture.

Spike and Kengo nodded in tacit approval. “Hades,” they said at the same time.

The first thing Spike did was throw himself onto the leather couch, already foregoing the idea of trying to cuddle up to Kengo. Not that he wouldn’t want that, but he just didn’t expect getting much sleep the next two nights anyway. Kengo deserved his peace. Plus, it was better not to risk temptation and spoil their platonic roommateship. Well, mostly platonic…

Spike noted the handle on the side of the couch. “Oh, thank goddess,” he said, sitting up and pulling out the trundle. He laid down. “Oh! This is pretty comfortable, actually.”

“See!” Kengo said, merrily. "This is a nice hotel." He was already organizing his outfits in his suitcase, delicately placing each meticulously chosen arrangement of pants, shirts, underwear, and socks, onto the onyx table. “Colt takes care of us. Hmmm...kore wa nan desuka?”

“Hm?” Spike sat up and looked over in Kengo’s direction. He'd learned enough Japanese from Kengo by now that it sounded to him like he'd stumbled upon something interesting. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Are these…hangers for our shirts?” Kengo tugged on the long, leather strap and chain hanging from the armoire interior. “And these appear to be…cuffs?”

Spike cocked his head to the side and examined the menagerie of various leather restraints. His eyes immediately expanded. “K-Kengo!"

"What!" Kengo jumped back as if he'd just encountered a live spider. "D-don't scare me like that! What is it?"

Sweating nervously, Spike looked around the room. Sexy male and female statuery. A big hot tub in the bathroom. More restaints built into the bed! "K-Kengo. I think...Colt put us in the naughty room!”

“I thought it was underworld themed?” Kengo said, innocently. He eyed the bondage straps. Then it clicked. “This…this for humans! Why would they put these here? Unless…” Kengo’s jaw dropped. “Someone is going to tie us up and kill us!”

“NO, BIG BEAR, IT’S A KINK THING!”

Kengo’s face turned bright red. “WHAT! Noooo!” He pulled his hand back as if he’d just touched a live coal, and SLAMMED the door shut. He pointed a firm, accustaory finger at his friend. “Th-th-this is your because you are the naughty boy, isn't it!?”

“WHAT!” Spike fell off the back of the trundle. He stood and blew a piece of hair out of his face. “First of all, I have shockingly little experience with being tied up. Yes, I know. We’re all surprised. But I would NEVER suggest anything so—aaaaand he’s already asleep...”

A deep, loud snore cut across the room. Kengo on his stomach, head turned, snored and smiled from the bed.

Spike dragged his hand across his face and sighed. “I need liquor.”