Blood Brawl, Chapter 2

Horace, the host at the Dragon Wings Orc Bar, wasn’t giving into any racial stereotypes of being an aggressive brute. On the contrary, he felt weak after the previous night’s events, which were fresher in his mind than a gushing slash wound. The interior of the bar had been reduced to ashes by that…thing. There was hardly any furniture left and the few tables and chairs that survived the assault were covered in blood and ashes. The counter was among the survivors and looked no better than the rest of the furniture.

The distraught bartender stood at the counter absentmindedly running a dirty dish rag along the insides of the same mug for ten whole minutes. With his only customers turned to worm food, it didn’t matter to the public what his state of mind was at the time. His traumatized brain was about to be flooded with cold numbness when he saw a figure standing in the doorway in a black trench coat and a hood wielding a scythe. Horace dropped to the ground and cowered in fear thinking he really was dead after all.

Horace’s heart thumped in his chest and his body had gone cold with dripping sweat. Not another trauma, damn it! And then the orcish voice said, “It’s alright, Horace, it’s me, Ivan. The bartender slowly stood up and saw that the voice indeed belonged to Ivan Blackstone, an orc warrior who for some reason loved to dress up like the grim reaper and carry a scythe to boot. Ivan casually said, “Yeah, I know, weapons aren’t allowed.” before depositing his blade on the ground.

The bartender was both relieved and argumentative at the same time when he continued wiping his mug and said, “Listen, I don’t need a lecture about what happened last night. I’m not in the goddamn mood for another scare. So if you’re not going to order anything to drink, I suggest you take your soapbox somewhere else.”

Ivan slammed his palms on the counter (which spooked Horace into a little jump) and drummed his fingers while giving the barkeep a despising glare. “What did you think was going to happen when you allowed those two to fight each other? Does anybody take kindly to having their head shaved after getting their ass kicked? Do I also need to remind you that Gargoth Trencher, the one who lost that ‘wrestling’ match, was not just this ‘death angel’ everyone’s talking about; he was my best friend.”

“If you consider that monster to be your friend, then you’ve got some fucked up social skills, kid.”

“Anybody who runs a wrestling league from their bar doesn’t have the right to criticize other people’s social skills. Besides, all this death angel chatter is news to me as well. Gargoth didn’t look anything like that when I tried to talk him out of coming here. No warning signs at all. An arrogant prick? Maybe. Hardheaded? Absolutely. Death angel? Never would have guessed it in a million years.”

Still wiping down the same mug, Horace said, “So you think there’s some hocus pocus bullshit going on here? Hell, I’d probably learn some magic too if someone was bold enough to shave my head. That death angel gig can be pretty nice after losing a wrestling match.”

Ivan grabbed Horace by his shirt and pulled him closer for an even more intense stare down. “If you’re suggesting that Gargoth did this on purpose, then you’ve got more problems on your hands than a messed up bar. You’ve got a pissed off best friend to deal with!”

Horace’s initial fear was replaced with screaming anger when he said, “Best friend?! You call that monster your best friend?! You’re actually making excuses for someone who’s beyond redemption?! I always knew you were loyal to your friends, Ivan, but this is downright evil! Take a look around you, buddy! Look at all those burned corpses! Look them in the eyes and tell them your little theory about how Gargoth Trencher is an innocent man! I’m sure if they were alive today, they’d completely understand!”

The trench coat-wearing orc found himself unable to argue with that point and let go of Horace’s shirt. The bartender went right back to cleaning his glass when Ivan finally pointed it out to him: “You realize you’ve been wiping that same glass since I got here, right? Do you even know where the hell you are right now?”

The frustrated host threw the glass on the ground and stomped on it several times, “Of course I know where I am. I’m in hell! And there’s no way out! Come to think of it, you’re in hell too, my friend! It’ll only get worse when your so-called best friend lays those fiery eyes on you and turns you to shit with just one stare!”

“Trust me, Horace, I’m ready to scour the earth for Gargoth. This isn’t just about friendship. This is about getting the answers that I deserve. Maybe your dead patrons won’t like my innocence theory very much, but they probably would like some answers, at least their families would.”

Horace made a flat tire noise and said, “Okay, so you think you can find him before every other bounty hunter does. That’s right, buddy. If I know King Lovelace like I think I do, he’s probably offering hundreds of thousands of gold pieces just for that bastard Gargoth’s head. He doesn’t offer that kind of money unless the bounty head is really goddamn hard to find. So, not only do you get to play chit-chat with your little butt buddy, but you also get to make some money off of the whole thing. If I had that much money, I’d stop walking around dressed like the grim reaper.”

“Money? You think I give two shits about the money?” said Ivan Blackstone in an angry whisper before clutching Horace around the throat and squeezing with his muscular hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, Horace, if you make one more shitty comment about my friend like that, I will rip out your liver!”

The bartender would have passed out if Ivan didn’t release his grip shortly after hearing a noise from upstairs. Horace sat on the ground coughing up spittle, snot, and blood while sucking in every last breath of air he could. Ivan picked up his scythe and tried to make his way up the stairs to the attic when Horace stopped him with harsh words.

“That’s right, Ivan! You keep on defending that piece of shit! You keep telling yourself that he’s being controlled by someone else and this whole death angel gig is just a ruse! I’m sure even you will believe it someday!” Horace sucked in deeper breaths and said, “But know this…although I could never beat your ass in a fight, there’s someone out there who will have had enough of your bullshit and will rip YOUR liver out!”

Instead of engaging in another heated struggle with Horace, Ivan frankly said, “We have a spy in our midst. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to be able to find whoever’s up there!” The scythe-wielding badass stormed up the stairs and into the attic, where the light, fast-paced footsteps confirmed to Horace what Ivan just said.

By the time Ivan made it to the top, he scoped around the dingy and dusty cluster bomb of whiskey barrels, but whoever was up here before was giving him a good slip. The squirrel-like footsteps sounded off from seemingly in all directions. Ivan’s eyes shot around everywhere until from out of the corner of his right eye, a pair of booted feet flew toward him and smashed him in the face. The orc was knocked backwards by the stinging, possibly bruise-forming kick, but he didn’t fall on his ass until tripping over a barrel.

Ivan was only slightly dizzy from that drop kick, so while he was lying on the ground, his vision was clear enough to spot a young female human rogue dashing toward the glass window and throwing another drop kick to break it open and make her escape. Such a powerful kick would have been enough to keep normal men down.

But this wasn’t any normal man. This was Ivan freaking Blackstone. He may not have been an orcish stereotype, but one thing he acknowledged as part of his race was his ability to endure beatings. He got up instantly, grabbed his scythe, and ran toward the window after whoever was spying on him and Horace. He screamed, “Get back here, you sneaky bitch!” and then jumped out the window himself in pursuit of this mysterious lady.

Blood Brawl, Chapter 1

Orcs didn’t give two shits about what “lesser” races thought of their appearances. An orcish warrior could walk down the street covered in pig mud and horse piss and it would be completely normal to him. On this night, however, it wasn’t about odors or clothing; it was about hair. It was a rowdy and raucous night in the Dragon Wings Orc Bar. Every smelly disgusting orc raised their arms in the air and shouted like sports fans. The latter could have been because they were sports fan, particularly combat sports.

Two grimy wrestlers stood across from each other in the bar’s circle pit while others gathered around them and cheered in lovely orcish cacophony. The fighters never took their eyes off of each other as they stared across the circle pit. They had the one thing that made orcs stand out from the rest of the fantasy races: ruthless aggression. Their fangs were clamped down tightly. Their slimy green lips were quivering. Their bulging muscles were trembling. Their fists were harder than blocks of cement. The biggest blow to the loser wouldn’t come in the form of bruises or cuts. It would come in the form of having his head shaved completely bald.

Tazz Battler, the one with the black dreadlocks and brown fur wrestling trunks, got in his combative stance and looked ready to slam his opponent on the wooden floor with a deafening thud. Gargoth Trencher, the one with blond pigtails and gray sharkskin trunks, remained arrogant with his folded arms and wicked glare. Word around the campfire was that Gargoth wasn’t taking this Hair vs. Hair matchup seriously since he believed Tazz was beneath him. It was either a big mistake or a prophecy, an answer only having this wrestling match would tell.

With the thunderous ring of the brass bell, the fight was underway. Tazz let out a monstrous warcry and wasted no time in bull rushing his opponent. Gargoth, being the arrogant prick he was, allowed his adversary to engage him in a collar-elbow tie-up without much effort. The two of them pushed and shoved their away around the sea of orcish humanity just to see who would gain the first advantage. Even the biggest bruisers were being knocked over with ease by these two warriors.

Gargoth drew first blood when he grabbed Tazz by his dreadlocks and shoved him face first to the floor. To add insult to injury, the pigtailed orc placed his steel boot on his opponent’s head and held him there while posing and pandering to the wildly cheering crowd.

Tazz thrashed underneath the weight of his rival in an attempt not to suffocate on this dingy wooden floor. He then got the idea of grabbing Gargoth’s free ankle with both hands and yanking his body out from underneath, sending the blond oaf crashing to the ground.

Playtime had officially come to an end for these two grapplers. They scrambled together on the floor in an attempt to lock in a submission hold of some kind. Their slimy skin and deadly strength left them both at a stalemate since grabbing onto a limb was next to impossible.

Finally, Gargoth grabbed both of Tazz’s wrists and squeezed as hard as he could while whispering angrily, “Are you a wrestler…or a whore of the night?! If you’re going to fight me, do it without trying to get laid!”

It was advice well-taken. Tazz ripped his greasy, unwashed arms out of Gargoth’s grip, stood up, and jumped up before planting both heavy feet into his opponent’s stomach. The pigtailed warrior let out a throaty scream of agony while the orcish audience cheered their approval of this brutality, especially after blood was leaking from Gargoth’s bottom lip.

Tazz Battler wasn’t finished yet. He hooked his massive arms around his nemesis’ ankles and spun him around in a classic wrestling move known as The Giant Swing. Around and around the two of them went, Tazz not caring if he smacked a few orcish audience members along the way. This gargantuan display of power was ended when the dreadlocked warrior lifted Gargoth even higher in the air and slammed him repeatedly on his back until the pigtailed brute passed out from the pain. So many crunches, so much bleeding from the mouth, and the audience was there to cheer on the whole thing.

“Hand me the razor! He’s finished!” screamed Tazz while holding his hand out. Someone gave him a shaving razor that looked more like a rogue’s dagger and probably hurt like one when cutting hair. But as Tazz went to work on the pompous pigtails and everything in between, Gargoth was still out of it from being slammed on his back so many times.

By the time the once arrogant prick came to, his green scaly scalp had deep gashes and cuts, but no pigtails. He was completely bald while Tazz Battler held the remaining bloody hair in the sky with pride and orcish adrenaline. To confirm this was really happening, Gargoth placed a gentle hand on his own head to feel the wounds. He really was shaved bald. The Hair vs. Hair stipulation had been fulfilled.

Upon realizing his “lovely locks” were gone and upon listening to the orcish audience laugh at him and cheer for Tazz, Gargoth’s lips quivered in sadness while tears streamed down his cheeks, prompting even louder laughter from his peers. He was even treated to slurs like “fag”, “man-whore”, and “big baby” for good measure. The once proud orc was reduced to a blubbering child as tears poured from his eyes in a waterfall of sadness. He was traumatized for life.

The horse laughing and name calling would have gone on all night if it wasn’t for the fact that Gargoth’s tears had turned blood red. Orcs were accustomed to seeing blood on a daily basis, but this was weird enough to cast universal silence in the bar. The more Gargoth cried tears of blood, the angrier he became. His breath became hot enough to blow fire. His bald wounds were healing over with parasites. His muscle-bound body was forming cracks with burning orange light shining through them.

The once tough orcish crowd was now backing away from Gargoth Trencher as he stood up and started peeling his skin off. This wasn’t gentle peeling; this was ripping and shredding, which started to scare the once proud orcish audience. The huge chunks of ripped flesh were turning into maggots and leeches that stank worse than the entire bar clientele put together.

With a sea of orcs cowering and quivering in fear before him, Gargoth Trencher had peeled away his old self to reveal the form of a flaming skeletal death angel, complete with black metal wings and enough of an odor to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon.

With a deeper, more demonic voice than before, Gargoth screamed, “Is this what you call entertainment?! Is this you’re idea of fun?! Then goddamn it, let’s have some mother…fucking…FUN!!” That last word was prolonged with extra fire in his voice, fire that scorched the skin of the orcs in the tavern.

Gargoth continued to breathe fire and tear the flesh off of the orcs around him. His violent rampage made the entire bar look like a bloodbath of fire and flesh. Some of the cowardly and bullying orcs were able to run for the exit, though most of them were thrashing and burning in never-ending pain. Death came slowly and torturously for Gargoth’s victims.

He could have won bonus points for mental torture as well. In the distant corner of the Dragon Wings Orc Bar was the barkeep, cowering, quivering, and making himself as small as humanly possible. He shivered and cried in his little space and wished death would come instantly. Get in line, barkeep. The only thing that gave him any peace whatsoever was the sudden extinguishing of the flames around him and the disappearance of Gargoth Trencher, death angel at large.

The bartender slowly stood up and surveyed the horrifying damage around him. His furniture had turned to ashes, though that was the least of his concerns. His patrons were mangled and twisted into funny shapes while drowning in a heap of blood and smoke. Judging from the sorrowful look on the bartender’s face as well as his unwillingness to stop shaking, this battlefield would haunt him for the rest of his life. All he wanted to do was sit in bed and cry, but no eiderdown was soft enough to sooth his mental wounds.