Bruce hates his life more than a teetotaler hates strong drink. And that's because he hates it completely. And at the very least the non-drinker has options: water, soda, milk and whatever, anything else other than the proverbial wisewaters. Which thing he feels he doesn't have, not anymore. He's now come full circle, to disdaining the expansion and contraction of his lungs as they beg pathetically to draw in more of this misery. He feels like a thirsty animal with a consciousness developed enough to know that the water being offered by a would-be Good Samaritan is laced with cyanide. Misery, pain, emptiness are the common threads weaving together to form this sackcloth burnt in ashes called mortality. He shudders at the thought of continuing in this generally frail existence and his specifically failed one, even more so than a hemophobe might at the sight of a vampire's favourite meal. And drink. Which is downright ironic right?, since the bulk of earthly people would kill to live just another day. What more to live on and on and on, indefinitely if it were possible? Which latter assertion is kind of ironic as well, in it's own right. Now that he thinks about it a slight chuckle spreads across his lower face. Rare, brief. A mere comma in the horrific novella of life. His a novella because he's not going to sit back and watch fate complete a whole full length novel out of his emptiness.
A cold wind slaps his face. And causes the hairs of his arms to stand erect, and those of his head to wave like the banners of victorious patriots after a hot war. His teeth chatter and his heart. . . well, his heart beats with the force of a pestle being pounded against the inner walls of his chest, intending to crash his sternum into fine powder. His feet dance in the air, at times the heels slamming painfully against the vertical part of the cliff's edge.
Below him humongous waves crash and turn into white foam on top of scree, jagged and sharp boulders scattered mindlessly by the forces of nature. To become effective double-edged swords for those who come up here with ill intent. People as decided as him on the day. Double-edged swords indeed, in practice that is. Metaphorically the rocks protrude from the unsteady waters like the tallest fingers on various hands giving nature an up-yours. The metaphor finds acceptance in his mind, which tool translates these subtle inferences into dark consciousness. What dawns upon him as the sun sets is that he's still here. He's still breathing. His heart is still throbbing. And this thing called life, that it's still as terrible as he found it when his mother, a woman he never met, gave breath to him. His own up-yours finger, it's now dancing violently. To the musical score of his worst demon. It shakes, it wobbles. It begs to be collapsed back to its more comfortable position, to be curled besides its compatriots into a weak fist. Another metaphor, this one for years spent attempting to hit back at the drywall called life. Only to break knuckles, tear flesh, ooze blood and amputate limb. Metaphors aside, he's literally fed himself by digging fists (albeit gloved ones, fortunately) into the guts of folks trained to take sucker punch after sucker punch after goddam sucker punch. And unlike life, folks trained to take as much pain as they hand out.
For the fame, for the money, for the plaques; for acceptance and adoration he's fought. On collosal stages in front of record crowds. Punishing opponents with uppercuts and jawbreakers. Sense-shutterers. It was a good run while it lasted. But soon, and very soon, the curtain closes. The encore is no more. Applause drowns in perpetual pain. Regret, the conscience begins to throb as you crash back into real life. Lifeless, colorless, nonchalant. Boring. When not harsh, cruel and sadistic that is. Without the blinding lights one begins to see existence for what it really is. Real life.
But real life. . . real life is the kind of life Bruce Alpha loathes with all the sinews his body can muster specifically for this undertaking.
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Kojo stands at the very edge of a precipice as the beast slowly but surely advances towards him. A beast foreign to the world from whence the ostensible warrior originates is what it is. A total of four eyes, two on either side of its head. The front ones smaller than the ones behind them. A large head, considering the rest of the beast's body which isn't small in its own right. When it grumbles, spit flows like tiny streams from its mouth. When it barks or roars or does any of its various sounds which demands it to gap its cave of a mouth open, waterfalls of saliva splash out and make the sand of the desert just under its head a little oasis. In the most literal of senses. It's body reminds one of a spotted African hyena. Large head, broad forebody, smaller rearbody, almost feeble and pathetic, and legs. Almost the same quarks and characteristics too. Except that this one is way larger, and has a mane like that on a grown lion, only this one grey. Dark grey. The grey of the thick fur covering the rest of its body is lighter. And dotted with white spots. There's a black smudge on one of its rear legs and the beast walks with a sorry limb.
It approaches the cornered man slowly, with the cautiousness of a hunter who's after an oblivious rabbit. In fact, with a cautiousness which borders on trepidation, as if the animal knows fully well how much harm its target is capable of inflicting. The target doesn't move. Doesn't twitch a muscle. Besides the muscles tightening under his jaws as he clenches them. Bare feet sunk deep into orange sand. Sand falling over the cliff like a waterfall akin to the Victoria Falls. Resulting in a sand mist covering the whole landscape, impairing vision and choking nostrils. He coughs a supercough and sneezes violently. Before adjusting the scanty scarf to cover the main orifices natural to his face, but barely. Eyes though stung by the orange powder never lose sight of the danger in front of him, a danger still limping towards an equally fatigued foe.
He's a muscular man to be sure. What might be correctly assigned the term giant in the context of other earthly humans, the generality of them. Ripped, in more colloquial speak, is what he is. Everything bulging and bare, and shimmering with sticky sweat. Biceps. Chest. Shoulders. He wears nothing but a leather girdle covering his loins. Exclusively that supposed to be elusive area of his fleshy tebernacle.
He holds the dagger—nothing more than an improvised weapon made out of a sharp and long rock with bark tied in knots around the thicker, blunter end—in one hand. But it still looks as menacing as one would be if it were made out of the best steel. Brandishes it in dusty space. Ever training the sharp edge on the ever impending fate, waiting to stab it to its demise whenever it's advanced sufficiently. He wipes his face with the other hand, the one whose shoulder is oozing blood from a nasty wound. A deep and dangerous cut from the looks of it. Inflicted by a sharp knife, or a tooth or a claw. His face becomes muddy when he wipes it, the product of orange dust mingled with salt water. A perfect paste to conceal the free pores remaining. His face becomes itchy.
The hand doing the wiping is a rather interesting one on close observation. There's a silver star tied to his wrist, like how one would wear a watch. Cast out of metal, it's silver sparkle casting a knowing glance at the silver of the dying sun. There's a ring in each finger discounting the thumb. All made out of stone except the gold one in his wedding finger. The index bears a black ring, the middle finger a red one, the little pinkie the smallest ring, yellow in colour.
The two opponents continue to size each other, or develop an attack strategy in their heads. Whatever it is, they both remain largely immobile. Largely maintaining the safe fifteen or so yards between them. The man's predicament worsened by the fact that he can't move an inch back if he wanted to retreat. He's got one less option than his deadly opponent. Or in other words, the option that's most likely to keep him alive is the least available.
The initial movement is instigated by the human. Who slams the fist which still grips his weapon against the silver star bangled on the other wrist.
"What's the emergency Kojo?" a voice emanates from the whirlwind. A weak but strengthening whirl of sand behind the man.
Without removing his gaze from the animal Kojo responds: "I don't think this is gonna work."
"What are you talking about?"
"This thing in front of me. . . It's not a challenge, it's a trap."
"Just come back then. It's not like you're obligated. . . ."
"I could use some goggles, the dust down here is killing me. Can I get goggles?"
"Yah, but that will cost you all your rings. I don't think that's a great bargain."
"You'd think that if you were the one down here. Okay, what about a bow and arrow, how much will that cost me?"
"Your second life is what. Not a good bargain either."
"Well, I need a bow and arrow. Second life isn't gonna kill this thing here. Bow and arrow might."
"But you're gonna have to kill it twice, it only has to sink its claw into your heart once. That's not a position. . . . "
"Morro, just get me the bloody weapon, okay? I'll take the bloody risk."
There's an incredible flash of light. Quick and dazzling. Basically, lightning without the cloud, the rain or the subsequent rumble of thunder. But in its aftermath the beast comes to terms with the fact that it's opponent now possesses a new advantage. Unforseen. Unfair, if the beast could argue for itself. He can now strike from a distance. But instantly it also recognizes that his upperhand is not that stratospheric. Trying to keep the heavy bow steady so as to take a perfect shot is taking a toll on the man's injured shoulder. The point of the arrow shakes uncontrollably. The animal breaks into a stroll. Propelled by a new hunger. And thirst. Red blood actually tastes better than the black and green it's become accustomed to on this planet. It has this metallic flavour to it. . . .
The animal breaks into a run. Only hindered by uncooperating ligaments in one of its hindlegs which the fight savvy man devastated.
The string goes taut. Still dancing. A dancing exercebated by the elasticity of the killing device. Kojo can't wait anymore. He lets the arrow go. It doesn't hit bull's-eye. So to speak. It curves upward just before it connects with flesh and bone and removes but an inconsiderable chunk of skull from the charging creature. Which creature continues to charge. Even as a thick black fluid, a fluid much like raw petroleum shoots up like lava from an angry volcano.
Ten yards. Eight. The man starts running towards the beast. They meet halfway. Its mouth close in on an arm. The already afflicted arm unfortunately for it, unfortunately for him too but better than the alternative. While he sinks an arrow on top of its neck. Removes it. Sinks it again. His other hand throbbing with pain, his feet slowly losing ground as the animal determines to throw him over. He grabs the retired dagger from its place in a leathern sheath dangling from his waist. Hears his bones crush under the weight of the beast's relentless bite. Ignores it like a true warrior should. Drops the heavy dagger sharp-point first into the soft spot of the skull where the chunk's been removed. Extracts another jet of black, this one hitting his face like water from a hose. He feels the bite relinquish, but not the pain. The beast falls on one side, he falls on the other.
Slowly catches his breath. Before the beast which is now lying in a pool of its black life giver. Walks painfully towards it. Drags it slowly with the still intact hand. Throws the corpse over. Limps towards his weapons and starts gathering them. Before another distinct roar envelops the atmosphere.
The wind has intensified. The silver sun is turning purple. The very same animal which he's just "killed" has appeared. For one final showdown. Luckily, fate has kept all the injuries he inflicted upon it earlier. So that all he's got to do is pick his knife, lift it as high up in the sky as his body can allow, and down it goes to inflict the final blow.
Two more creatures to kill, and these one mortal humans with warm and red blood. In exactly the sequence he's planned. Then he may as well die forever, he won't care afterwards.