Chain Gang All Stars

Four martyrs step into a rodeo. It’s a joke. The killing kind. The kind where you ain’t laughing much but see something a little different after the punch has lined. Where life is precious, life is precious. And surely that’s not here. Type of courage most ain’t lucky enough to see. It’s a full crowd that seen it. And it’s more protesting outside the arena than cheering in. Maybe something right coming, maybe we’ll see something different, but for now, we forget all that ain’t the ladies’ death.

We walk, released into what the world has been waiting for. The woman that wears the crown in the killing games, Thurwar, carries a hammer and jogs behind her lady, the scythe holder, the one they call Hurricane, a fine picture of death waiting to reduce us to Xs on her skin.

“I’ll meet the hammer. You go scythe,” I say. I yell ’cause the crowds are louder than they’ve ever been. I feel their voices in my bones.

I hope I am not commanding him to his death. Simon J. Craft, who has been reduced to the Unkillable. Simon, who deserves no sympathy but won’t ever be undeserving of love.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and he runs.

I hope I am not sprinting to a ruin.

—

Thurwar knew well the man called Singer, the unlikely Colossal. Was he crazy or holy? And the Unkillable, surely he was crazy, though a different kind. The kind born of Influence.

She watched Singer, his eyes sharp and sad. He wore a shoulder guard that punched down and protected his arm. He wore bolt leather and had an embroidered air horn on his shirt, the emblem of a popular music-streaming service. Singer ran toward Thurwar. She knew he liked to open with a long thrust, so she watched the black tip of the spear. She did not want to kill him, but she would as soon as she had the chance.

—

Long nights I’ve wondered about this woman. This woman who’s seen more death even than me. Wish I could know her well. What does this fourth door offer her? What has she discovered? I tell Craft to run toward the Hurricane woman. And although I tell him I will seek the hammer, I veer and sprint to the woman they named after wind and thunder. I push to fly off the ground. A one-arm and an Unkillable might smother a storm. My gone arm points me to a change of plans. The Grand Colossal notices my approach, as does the scythe. We run toward the storm.

—

It’s not an uncommon tactic, to try to dispatch quickly one opponent on a double team. Watching the men sprint toward Staxxx, Thurwar felt a panic like falling from solid ground to harsh waters. She pushed as hard as she could toward the men. She didn’t feel a huge pain, she was too adrenalized, but her knee said be gentle. Her leg buckled under the sudden strain and change of direction. Thurwar was on her knees in the dirt. She watched as the man called Unkillable leapt into the air. Staxxx stopped to engage him. She shot LoveGuile out like a poker into the man’s face. In the air he received the blow from the blunt side and continued to fall toward her as if he had not felt a thing.

Thurwar picked herself up off the ground. Her knee hurt, but it was still hers. She rushed.

—

Craft dances with the stormy god. Swinging his arms to kill, he slices and breaks the tie keeping her hair from whipping about and her dreads fly free as I approach them. She spins, using the scythe to keep Craft away. He leaps, ducks it, moves like the precise human animal he is. I want her eyes on him. She is focused for her life. The scythe moves like a kind of magic that Craft has not seen before. But she must watch him too. The Grand Colossal has stumbled and I will have the lunge. She’s just getting back to her feet and I reach out with my gone arm, imagine it stretching out to aid Craft, who is swinging and dodging, the sound of metal singing as the scythe repels his claws. A special thing, a wild dance between two forms of death incarnate. Pain and love trying, trying to kill each other. I know the hammer will soon be upon me. I stretch. The one called Staxxx stumbles as if tripping. I thank my gone arm. Even as she falls back she repels the angry swipe of the Jungle. On one leg she swings and Craft is forced back.

But in the position, off-balance, she is vulnerable. I am close enough. Spinifer, bring this beautiful woman to ruin. Bless her to Freedom. I run and pull back.

On my side my gone arm tries to repel something.

On my side my gone arm tries to deflect.

The hammer rips through my arm that is no longer there. On the side of my head I feel the hammer, thrown through the air. A brutal release, an abrupt song. It’s a long John.

I thank the world, unsure no longer. Worthy of life, I’m sure as it leaves. In the end, surely we are blessed. The royal and low, the queen and the singer. Surely we are blessed. The hammer welcomes me, Hendrix Young, to the unbound.^[*1]

—

It isn’t a good idea, but in the arena, when death is coming you find ways to redirect it. Thurwar got up off the ground and, after running three paces, saw she would not make it in time to help Staxxx. She turned her run into a spin, held Hass at its end, and then spun once more. As she rotated, her eyes tracked Singer and her body did the critical math. She let the hammer fly, threw it and it flew, and it met Singer at the side of his head. He erupted into stillness. The crowd screamed for the kill. They screamed for Thurwar.

This is why we love you, they said.

They screamed because the man they called Unkillable noticed that his companion was dead on the ground, even in wild pursuit, and he stopped suddenly. The Unkillable Jungle Craft’s arms went limp and he ran toward the man who had guided him from hell to a kinder, easier hell. Thurwar watched as Simon J. Craft ran past her to the body of Hendrix Scorpion Singer Young.

Simon kneeled there, held Hendrix, what was left of his human suppleness, in his arms and did not move. The crowd stood silent. Their hearts opened; some resisted, some gave in. Eyes found tears. Simon Craft held Singer’s body, squeezed it to him, then laid the body on the ground.

Staxxx walked up to the man, who was unmoving except for his heaving breath. Craft took his fist and gently punched Singer’s knuckles.

Thurwar watched this. Staxxx approached and rested the scythe on Craft’s shoulder.

“Sorry, baby. I love you,” Staxxx said, and then she pulled LoveGuile across his neck.

He dropped forward. The Unkillable Simon J. Craft was killed.^[*2] Staxxx walked away from the scene, dropped her weapon to the ground, as did Thurwar. They returned to their Keep and held each other’s hands for what was next, and the people wondered if this feeling was salvation.

*1 Hendrix Young, Colossal. 1M. A love that kills like he did is not a love at all. Learned that lesson some years ago. Sing when you want. Give the grace you can to what you can. Pray the redeemer accepts you, grants you grace. You are the redeemer.

*2 Simon J. Craft, Harsh Reaper. 4M 1R. Jungle Jungle Jeremiah. Just Jump. Just a Jaunt. The J stands for. Those that cause suffering. What of them? What of me? Simon asked of himself. He was a murderer, a rapist. He was. He had not always been. What of that person that had been? What of what could have been? Because he was ruined he ruined and was ruined further.

There was a light. He jumped to it.