Discomforting numbness pumped through Wilson Wredrun as he was wheeled out into the Colosseum. For a moment, amidst the hazy groggle of disjointed thoughts, he feared that he'd been pumped with anti-psychotics and muscle relaxants. [i]Someone's out to get you, boss[/i], his brain growled at him, [i]Book it, or you'll die in this joint.[/i] HIs fingers leapt into action, and mindlessly gripped the bars of his cage with his meaty, calloused fingers. The clean steel felt alien to grime-caked fingers, having subsisted in filth and squalor prior to today.

[i]Today! Today! Today![/i]

Today, he was going to die. No, someone was going to die. [i]Yeah.[/i] He'd kill someone and they'd die, and he'd go right on home to the gym, and stop by his favorite burger joint afterwards and shoot the shit with the manager and go home with a big juicy burger in his gut while he watched re-runs of the Three Stooges. Then he'd chortle down a shot of whiskey and go to sleep with an ecstatic buzz, and dream of the clear blue sky. [i]Yeah.[/i]

[i]Nah. That's not how life works anymore, boss.[/i] His brain reached out to him again, and a slight urgency seeped into him as he finally blinked. No, he hadn't been drugged - he'd lost track of the time, and it just snowballed until he lost his self-awareness somewhere along the way. The gears of his mind began to grind, and suddenly he heard his name among flashing lights and a cheering crowd.

[b]"Next up is Wilson Wredrun. He is 39 years old, 5'9", and 260 pounds..."[/b]

There it was. All of the haze cleared out in an instant - he could feel the bars, smell the squalor, hear the roar, and taste the blood. Everything seemed over-saturated and sharp, like he'd just experienced an adrenaline rush for waking up He blinked his large, thoughtful eyes, and glanced about him.

[i]They! They! They![/i]

He understood at once that the people beside and across from him were his opponents. His equals, so to speak - only they carried the distinction of being paraded around like a zoo animal. The first one, Grace, caught his eye. She reminded him of the ice sculptures he used to carve, as a younger man, during the winter - fragile and easy on the eyes, but liable to break when thrown around.

Then he looked to Kyle, and Ken, and it suddenly occurred to him that all of these people were small and fragile. It staggered his mind for a moment - had he lost so much weight, to be paired up with these little twigs posing as killers of men? He squeezed the bars in his grip, and felt his powerful muscles tighten around his dense bones, and he knew that he hadn't. Glancing across from him, he saw much of the same - so light! So small! So...

Except for that one. What was he? Italian? [i] You don't know shit. You missed all his info while you was hazed up, boss.[/i]. Fine, let's assume he's Italian, smart-ass. He looked fit, and strong, and young, and Wilson strongly felt that he was the only threatening presence on the field. He had muscles, but he wasn't porky like Wilson, or old. Wilson had slipped out of his prime almost ten years ago, and this guy looked rife with tightly-packed energy under all that skin.

Jesus. Only one fair fight among all these folks? Why all of the small-fries? Are they just lambs to the slaughter, appetizers for the two big bad wolves?

At long last, Wilson turned his thoughts and feelings into words - audible for those in the cells near him, though not directed at them.

[b]"Jesus. This ain't a brawl. It's a goddamn snuff film, and me and him's the stars."[/b]