In Bloom? I

In Bloom? Part I

Funny things happen when you fall  asleep in the middle of the day after eatting a potato. Especially when the only cushion for you to a hard pillow. Especially when that hard pillow feels like needles stabbing you in the back of you head.

Time slows down.

An amphitheatre. It’s a scene that is etched in every child’s memory, but now, before the mind’s eye, is painted with a million new hues, and enriched with a myriad of new sounds, scents and smells. The first thing we notice is a cerulean sky. It’s completely blue, from the edge of the structure to as far as the horizon stretches. Scant a wisp of cloud mars the panorama, but billowing smoke begins to rise up into the air. Immediately we take stock of its source, and see a rather odd sight, one not generally mentioned in our history books. It is a large, metal bull, painted gold. Beneath it, a bonfire rages, as if the bull is being roasted on a spit, and the billowing smoke is emerging from the bull’s nostrils. The bull itself is larger and more powerful than any bull we’ve seen before, and we consider that it is probably based on a now – to us, the future observer – extinct species known as the Auroch.

The bull roars deafeningly, as the flames lick its abdomen at a height designed to catch the fire’s heat perfectly, rather than just toast it. But the rational mind cannot help but question the scene, knowing that it makes no sense to burn a statue, and much less for a statue to cry out, and it is in this moment that the eldritch truth blinks before our eyes. Inside the bull a man is trapped in a foetal position, with his head forced in the direction of the bull’s throat. As the flames roast the man alive, his agonal cries are amplified tenfold through the bull’s throat, the whole thing acting as some huge, excruciating musical instrument. It’s with this horrific realisation that we tear our eyes from the bull, as if acknowledging its existence prolongs the man’s suffering further. We start to notice the thousands of people in attendance, their attire varying in quality from top to bottom, and the irony of class divisions bringing everyone together in this circus of death is not lost. Midway on one side is a parapet, atop which sit nobles clad in white robes, and at its center a larger chair, reserved for the Emperor, sits empty. 

A flash of blood before the eyes. 

We look down, and beyond the brazen bull, around 15 meters ahead, a man dances bizarrely. He is dressed in Egyptian style finery, and looks completely out of sync with his surroundings. In his left hand, he holds a tiny dagger, which he waves around lackadaisically as his body contorts to the sound of agonal screams, and cheers from the crowd. In his left, he holds and throws away the torch that lit the bull. He begins dancing towards one direction, and we find ourselves looking the same way, as heavy iron gates open up. Out step a series of gladiators, from two directions, each gate opening on the dancing man’s instruction. They stand square from each other, and the dancing man parades through them as a general through his ranks. As he passes the final man, he drops to his knees, and combat commences. Reminders of films and graphic novels are quickly shed from our thoughts, as the true visceral carnage begins. Men with nets and tridents face off with men in full legionnaire attire, maces are flailed amongst swinging flails. Where Hollywood sees flashes of blood and instagib, the true picture is far less romantic.

Blood falling down my face.

The first exchange that asserts this brutal truth takes place near the kneeling man; a man wielding a blunt, iron mace, and clad in rags, is facing a net and spear man. He some how dextrously rolls beneath the net as it is flung in his direction, and in a moment he is stood behind the spearman. His mace comes down in one crushing blow, landing right on the spearman’s crown. On impact the skull is crushed, the man crumpling down to his knees. The mace is ripped away, covered in bloody hair and skull fragments, and leaves behind it a grotesque cavernous hole where seconds before a perfectly rounded skull had been. The crowd rise to their feet, elated with the underdog coming out on top. The mace man begins to circle the action, waiting for the next victor to take on. It doesn’t take long, as in another exchange, a legionnaire thrusts his sword straight through the eye socket of a flail man. He rips it out and we get our Hollywood blood gush, which quickly becomes a simple waterfall, as blood pours from the defeated man’s eye and he crumples forwards. 

The smell of my blood reaching my chin.

These scenes are played over and over. Gory death after gory death. Limbs are crushed or cut off, the sandy floor of the amphitheatre is stained crimson red. Complete carnage left and right. We notice behind the bull a stake being readied, but our eyes are quickly drawn back to the gladiatorial conflicts. Only three men remain now, and stand in a triangle. There is the Legionnaire, standing tall and not looking daunted; then there is the mace man, eyes bulging, breath wavering, muscles aching, heart racing. It is almost as if by looking at him we feel like him. And then, to complete the triangle, a trident man. The dancing man flitters gaily between all of them, and they look from one to the other, waiting for the first man to move. The action is suddenly forced when the dancing man kicks the trident man in the backside, pushing him into the center of both his opponents. Instantly the legionnaire is on him, and slashes his sword upwards, almost like an uppercut. The trident man ducks back, and uses the butt of his trident to smash the side of the legionnaire’s head. Momentarily he is dazed, and the right jaw clasp of his helmet is pushed inwards, denting and piercing into the legionnaire’s cheek. He roars as he falls to his knee, and rips off his own helmet, tearing off a chunk of his own cheek as he does so. Well trained, he instantly puts the pain out of his mind and lunges forwards to stab the mace man, at whose feet he was fallen. The mace man simply steps back, observing one on one etiquette. The crowd roars for him again, appreciating both his noble decision and the fact that he made a legionnaire look stupid for attacking him. The trident man lifts his trident high over his head, and goes to stab the legionnaire in the back of the neck, but the legionnaire spins around, and slashes his sword at the trident man’s left leg, completely severing it below the knee. The trident man’s trident plunges into the sand, and he lands on is as if it were a crutch, looking down in disbelief at his remaining leg stub. The legionnaire takes advantage of the trident man’s stupor, and plunges his sword directly through the man’s collarbone, sending it all the way into his diaphragm. Death is instant. 

Was I bleeding?

The dancing man begins to whoop. The legionnaire grins and looks at the bewildered mace man. He wipes a trail of blood from his chin and bears down on the mace man. All around them, the dancing man starts to cartwheel. 

Bright, blurry lights above.

The legionnaire toys with the mace man, feinting left and right, and deliberately swinging his sword over the man’s head. The mace man tries to stay composed, absorbing each feint as if he is learning the legionnaire’s attack patterns. Perhaps he played Mike Tyson’s punch out as a child. Perhaps he’s eaten his weetabix. 

 Is this feeling pain or  pleasure? 

The legionnaire tires of playing and looks towards the crowd, arrogantly asking them whether he should finish the mace man there and then. The crowd react in a mixed way, some cheering the underdog, others cheering the legionnaire, who represents the might of Rome. He flexes his sword bearing arm, then closes in on the mace man. In an instant he is past what flimsy guard the mace man can create by swinging his mace, and just as fast, the legionnaire smashes him in the chin with the butt of his sword. It’s a flash knockout, and the mace man stumbles to one knee. The legionnaire looms over him, glancing at the crowd before raising his sword, ready to deliver his death blow. But the mace man has regained consciousness, and uses all his might, with two hands, driving his mace into the legionnaire’s crotch. Again the legionnaire’s defences are dented, but this time his genitals are crushed with the same blow. He vomits hard, straight into the face of the mace man, who turns his face away and rolls to the side. But with vomit in his eyes, and still dazed, he is unable to instantly capitalise on the situation. He has to rely only on his hearing, as he tries to find the legionnaire in a sea of obscene chanting, the dancer’s insanity stimulating whoops, the still roaring bull, and the crackle of fire beneath it. 

The flutter of a black curtain. 

A hopeful swing of his mace, and it’s over. The legionnaire’s cervical vertebrae are crushed to dust in one imperious moment. The crowd leap to their feet in utter amazement. To say that this man was an underdog is an understatement. He drops his mace and looks to the heavens, his simple ragged clothing peppered with sand that sticks to the accumulated blood. The dancing man cartwheels towards him, and beckons him to rise. He then circles around him, bouncing around and encouraging the crowd to cheer louder and louder. 

Where am I?

And then he plunges his small dagger into each of the mace man’s kidneys, in a simultaneous and unexpected movement. The mace man crumples to the floor, bleeding to death. The crowd begin to jeer, completely outraged. The dancer pulls back his hood, revealing himself as the Emperor Nero, but this gets no reaction, as the crowd already know him. They start to pelt the arena with whatever they can find, and Nero beckons a column of Praetorian guard into the arena. He then points at random crowd members, and each of them is dragged into the arena. They are led to the stakes behind the brazen bull, set atop them, and burned alive. Nero laughs, and minces around the stakes gaily. 

The Rod of Asclepius. 

The scene fades.

Anna Tan: ****ing beautiful.

Paul Johnson: I, eh, I never knew you cared madam. 

The scene is now Anna Tan laying on a couch. Suddenly it is a knock on the door.

Anna Tan: God damn it, I was having the most amazing dream. And no vodka bottles involved.

Paul Johnson: Eh, a mansion and a bevy of women?

Anna Tan: Yeah, something like that…

Paul Johnson: Madam Mr. Amp is here to see you. 

Anna Tan: Oh yes bring him in.

Amp walks into the room as Anna begins to sit up on the couch. Amp then sits across from Anna and begins to speak.

Amp: Anna you know why I am here; Are you sure you are ready for this battle royal? You know everyone will be gunning for you in this match and you already have a triple match with Sin and Evie in that same night as well.

Anna Tan: You worry to much Amp, you shouldn't you be worried about the main event?

Amp: I already have the main event in the bag. So that's not a big deal. I am more worried about you.

Anna Tan: Would you like a potato, waffles or maltesers? Oh Johnson.

Amp: I am being serious here Anna!

Anna Tan: Should I care that I will be facing guys like Lennox, Simbel, Kaz or Sin? Should I really care that I will up against the entire roster? You should really have more faith in me. This situation is exactly what I thrive on, and in time you will know that.  

Amp has a worried look on his face.

Amp: Oh ok, but this could be a plan to take out an member of No Authority, what is Kash even enters this battle royal? You now he will be coming after you. 

Anna Tan: Let them come; and they will see what I have in store for them in that ring. Unlike everyone else that cut a promo so far will be trying to make comments and try to anal rape everyone in the match. But what is the point? Who would care? Would management take you seriously and give you a main event spot? If they think that will happen they are sadly mistaken. You see I am going to have fun. I am going to dancing around just like Nero did but instead it will be in the ring and I will have fun kicking all of your asses in that ring. I could really careless if I win or not. I couldn't give two fucks. But something I do know I will not let anyone win this title easily. So I hope all of you are ready to beg for your lives. Because I am coming after your heads.  

An evil smile crosses Anna Tan face as well Amp face.

Anna Tan:  Get ready to call me your new Untied States Champion; You can call me The Joan Of Inane. 

No Authority fades to black.