Dark Marriage

“Nice night for a black wedding, don’t you agree?” grinned Kain Venomtongue as he gently caressed Sheryl Sweet’s ball-gagged face with the back of his fingers. The frigid wind brushed its way across the top of the ziggurat and lifted Sheryl’s wedding dress a few inches. With her wrists and ankles bound to a horizontal metal cross, the dress would be the only thing flying free that night. Standing on either side of the temple stairs was a chorus of anthropomorphic cobras reciting hymns and flicking their tongues. The groom-to-be looked every bit as serpentine as his brethren with his monstrous face and green scaly flesh, most of which was covered by a dark sorcerer’s robe.

Sheryl Sweet struggled in her bindings and let out a few “Mmph’s” through her gag, but not even a barbarian’s strength could unseal her fate. The bride’s wide eyes and hysteria remained a stark contrast to Kain’s villainous smile as the necromancer pulled a jagged blade from his robes and recited hymns alongside the snake men. “Ashes to ashes,” he chanted. “Dust to dust. We are forever bound by Satan’s flames. Not even God nor his angels shall interfere with this dark marriage. Those who dare ascend the staircase invite the stench of death itself. If any mere mortal wishes to object to this sacred tradition, speak now or forever hold your tongue!”

As if on cue, a sharp steel presence descended from the night sky and slashed one of the snake men in half vertically, sending a storm of blood across the staircase and prompting Sheryl Sweet to scream like a mad woman possessed. “What the hell is this?!” Kain shouted, to which a blur of surgical steel whirred across the staircase, shredding, eviscerating, and disemboweling any snake monk in its path. Slithering screams echoed across the starlit night as the bloody rain continued to descend down the ziggurat. Pieces of flesh were carried away by the evening breeze. Organs sloshed and splashed until the satanic structure resembled a slaughterhouse. Every cobra minion lay in pieces with those fortunate enough to be alive regretting their decision to live.

Sheryl gazed in wide-eyed horror at the violence before her. Her ghostly shrieks were reduced to sobbing whimpers. Kain brushed her face with his fingertips and whispered, “Don’t worry, my love. This ceremony shall continue one way or another.” His promise to the bride was sealed with a delicate kiss on her sweaty forehead. He even licked one of her tears away, but once that was gone, more came flooding down her face.

The “tender” moment was interrupted by the sounds of a bird warrior pantomiming vomiting. The owner of the tainted blade knelt at the top of the staircase to further his act before breathing heavily and wiping his mouth off with his feathered arm. The bird man rose to his feet and revealed himself to be wearing red and blue ninja gear, which complimented his golden (albeit bloody) feathers.

“Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more nauseated, you go and pull that shit,” barked the bird man while accusingly pointing his blade at Kain. “There ain’t going to be no black wedding or dark marriage or whatever the fuck this is called. I’m Ronan Crow and it’s my job to bring the woman back home where she belongs. So unless you want to get force fucked with three feet of steel, I believe now is the time to remove her bindings. And for fuck’s sake, take that disgusting gag out of her mouth!”

Kain Venomtongue took a deep swallow, held his hands up defensively, and pleaded, “I think you’re making a big mistake, my friend.”

“No!” Ronan belted. “You made the mistake of bringing this bitch out here and trying to marry her! Look at her, she’s fucking terrified! It’s men like you that make me afraid to have daughters of my own! Come on, Miss Sweet, you’re coming back home to the king.” With Kain backing up several feet, Ronan approached the metal cross and slashed the bindings off in quick fashion.

Sheryl stood up and removed her ball gag before shaking her head at Ronan and shoving him lightly. “Are you fucking insane?!”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” said a silver-tongued Ronan. “Now hurry up and get on my back before Kain Slobbertongue over here takes three more Viagra and makes a move on you again.”

Sheryl slapped the bird warrior across the face and said, “You’re an idiot! You’re a goddamn idiot! This whole black wedding was my idea!”

“You’re kidding me…” said Ronan with wide eyes.

“No, I’m not!” shouted Sheryl while stomping her foot. “When you bring me back to my father’s castle, what do you think is going to happen? He’s just going to marry me off to some loser so that he can have more land and more riches for himself! I chose Kain over here because he’s a true gentleman! He’s fun! He’s adventurous! And kinky as hell! I mean, look at him!”

“Yeah, I’m looking at him alright. He’s definitely a catch. I don’t know how anybody could pass up a handsome stud like that,” said Ronan, oozing with sarcasm and shaking his sword at the necromancer.

“Oh, this?” asked Kain nervously. “This isn’t my real face. It’s just makeup.” He wiped away his scaly face and skin with the sleeve of his robe to reveal a youthful elf underneath with flowing black hair, golden piercings, and a soul patch underneath his chin. “And just so you know, those snakes you killed weren’t really snakes at all. Those were my friends. They too were wearing makeup and costumes. The black wedding theme was mostly their idea. And Sheryl’s too since she’s really into bondage.” Sheryl giggled and blushed at that last comment.

“Well, if you miss your wonderful fucking friends that much, why don’t you bring them back to life or some shit like that. You’re a necromancer. Do something!” yelled Ronan.

“Congratulations, bird brain,” said Sheryl while pointing a finger in Ronan’s face. “You proved once again that you have the IQ of an orange peel. Kain isn’t a necromancer, dummy. He’s a neck romancer. See? There’s a difference.” She brushed back her raven hair to reveal a hickey on the side of her neck.

Ronan roared like a lion before shoving his sword into the floor and belting, “Enough! Enough of this bullshit! The two of you make me fucking sick to my stomach! Why in the hell would anybody think hickeys and ball gags and crucifixions are sexy?! What woman on the face of this earth actually gets wet to something like that?! What grown man would ever get a hard-on to it?! This is some fucked up repugnant shit right here! I ought to kill both of you right now and spare the king the disappointment in having a bratty daughter!”

“Listen to me, you dumb shit!” shouted Sheryl as she pointed a finger in his chest.

“Back off, bitch!” barked Ronan while swatting her down on the floor with his feathery arm. Kain tried to rush him, but the bird warrior pulled out his sword and held him at distance. The “neck romancer” could smell the vile stench of blood radiating off of that horrible weapon. “You are a sick little turd, Kain Venomtongue. You’re a pervert and you’re probably a pedophile too! Maybe you shouldn’t take Sheryl home with you anyways! I’m pretty sure she’s too old for you!”

Kain dropped to his knees and recited a Satanic prayer before Ronan tapped his head with the flat end of his blade and said, “Oh no, buddy! None of that hocus pocus shit is going to save you now! You’re dead, you filthy creepy! You’re goddamn dead!”

Kain tucked his head further into his chest ready for death to come take him away. He could hear the sword wooshing around in the air and it made his heart beat faster and his blood run cold. His forehead sweated profusely, but he continued to pray to his demonic god. The close the blade came to touching his face, the louder his prayers. With one last “amen”, the sword was ready to come down on his neck.

The woosh of steel slashing was replaced with a heavy thud followed by avian feet shuffling about. Kain lifted his head up and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ronan Crow, with a lump on his head, rolling and tripping down the ziggurat stairs. Bones cracked, feathers flew, and squawks created a symphony of cacophony across the empty sky. These satisfyingly violent sounds went on for as long as the stairs would allow them to. And then there was silence; complete deathly silence, save for one final squawk until Ronan came face to face with Satan himself.

Kain grinned at the sight of his lover holding her ball gag like a pair of brass knuckles. The feathers and blood pasted to the rubber ball were badges of honor to her and proof she was no damsel in distress. Kain happily leapt to his feet and hugged his bride, though she responded with tears instead of reciprocated happiness.

“He ruined our wedding, Kain. He fucking ruined it,” Sheryl sobbed.

“Forget the wedding, my darling,” slithered Kain. “A wedding is just an event. True love can never be broken apart.” He kissed her forehead and said, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” The two of them made out together before Kain said in between kisses, “Darling…you were wonderful tonight!”

Chunky Puffs

That Crescent Moon Party was some badass shit. Lots of drinking, lots of dancing, lots of fucking, and not one werewolf in sight. And then Nick Savage wondered why the hell he was tied to a barbecue rack out on the beaches with a spitfire underneath him. He wondered why the hell he had a golden delicious apple in his mouth like a ball gag. The biggest question of all was why were two chubby cannibals with afro hair and grass skirts looking on at him with the most romantic eyes. They made Nick shiver like a naked Eskimo when they licked their fat lips.

In the end, none of those questions mattered to Nick. All he had to do was get the hell out of this contraption before daybreak. With his vampire fangs, he chewed through the apple and swallowed it whole, giving off an obnoxious burp after enjoying his snack. He looked at the confused cannibals with a crazy smile and said, “Well, you know what they say: an apple a day keeps the doctor away. So as soon as the two of you are done checking each other’s prostates, I’d like it if you’d untie me.”

The cannibal on the left started screaming in a tribal language while his friend was holding him back. During their petty argument, Nick could hear them call each other Soa and Tufu. He laughed like an evil clown while the one called Soa angrily asked, “What’s so funny, you pathetic little creature?!”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” said Nick. “I just didn’t think my night was end with me getting eaten alive by two idiots named Soda and Tofu. I suppose that can’t be worse than Gwyneth Paltrow naming her daughter Apple, but hey, who am I to judge?”

Soa was even more aggressive with his thrashing and tribal screaming, but Tufu was there to hold him back. As soon as Soa calmed down, his cohort pulled him aside and the two of them talked in their native language out of ear shot of Nick.

“Hey, retards!” Nick shouted. “If you’re going to try and eat me, do it already! I have a nice juicy ass that you could nibble on. Or if you’d like an even bigger slice of meat, flip me over and I’ll be happy to help.”

Soa and Tufu came back with a gigantic pot of brown gravy with a ladle inside. While Soa was rubbing his hands together and smiling deviously, his friend drizzled the brown sauce all over Nick’s bare chest.

“Wow, that looks appetizing,” said Nick. “You know, if you feed me some Taco Bell, I could do the same thing to the two of you in about half an hour.”

Tufu slammed the pot of gravy down on the sand and pinched Nick’s cheeks together with his massive thumb and fingers. “You want to be a smart ass, little man?” said Tufu. “Keep talking. We’re still going to devour every square inch of your pathetic little body!”

“Every square inch?” asked Nick sarcastically. “Including…you know…those places? This wasn’t exactly how I envisioned getting laid tonight, but if you two want to lose your virginities that bad, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

Tufu raised his meaty fist in the air and brought it down upon Nick’s mouth. The vampire spit out a fountain of blood in his captor’s face. The two cannibals grinned evilly at their prey while Soa said, “I think our meat needs to be tenderized. We’ll see how tough he really is. Punch him again! Knock those disgusting fangs out of his smart little mouth!”

The second time Tufu went for a punch to the mouth, Nick chewed through the cannibal’s hand and started drinking his blood. While Tufu screamed, Soa tried to pry the vampire’s fangs off of his cohort’s hand. Instead of releasing his alligator grip, Nick took one last bite at his captor’s wrist and swallowed the hand whole. Tufu fell backwards and rolled around in pain while blood squirted from his stump like a volcano.

While Soa knelt beside his friend to try and stop the rapid bleeding, Nick thrashed and struggled in his bonds. He could feel the ropes coming slowly apart with every jerk and twist. Tufu shouted at his partner, “Never mind me! The little bastard is trying to escape!”

Soa looked into Nick’s eyes with fire, fury, and tightly clenched teeth. As the vampire wriggled around, the cannibal picked an axe off the ground and slowly marched toward his victim. Soa drooled so much that he was aggravating the fire underneath his victim. Nick hollered as the rising flames scorched his bare back and burned holes in his blue jeans. The tribal warrior raised his axe and roared like a lion as he brought it down for one death blow to the gut.

While the rising flames turned Nick’s back crispy, they also weakened his bindings. As the axe came down, the vampire hastily brought his now liberated knee into Soa’s hand and caused him to drop the blade into the fire. While Nick’s back was completely blistered and red, the last few ropes were weak enough to break easily. He jumped off the barbecue rack and got in a rapid fist fight with Soa.

The two warriors smashed each other in the face so many times that they bled and bruised instantly. Fists turned to elbows. Elbows turned to knees. All eight limbs were being used to smash the shit out of each other and the resulting bursts of blood built up the fire even more.

The tickle of fire caused Nick to jump into Soa’s arms. Though slightly dizzy, the cannibal looked bloodily and romantically into his victim’s eyes. Nick looked at his tormentor the same way. When both men leaned in to take a bite, it was the vampire who clutched a hold of the cannibal’s jugular vein and drank blood like he was doing a keg challenge at a frat party. Soa’s body became as limp as a noodle, thus signifying his death.

After treating his victim’s blood like an open bar, Nick stumbled around clutching his chest while saying, “I don’t feel so good. I think I’m going to…I think…Jesus Christ…” He coughed violently before dropping to his knees and eventually plopping down on the sand chest first. The coughing became softer until he could no longer move.

Tufu, who had scrambled off to the side with a pile of leaves covering his stump, had finally gotten his bleeding under control to where he was no longer screaming in pain. He looked down at the lifeless Nick Savage with heavy breathing and clenched teeth. Little by little, he trudged over to the corpse while on his knees and started ranting under his breath.

“What’s wrong, little man?” said the last remaining cannibal. “Did you drink too much? Did you have a heart attack? That sucks for you. Too bad there’s nobody out here to give you CPR. I’d give it to you, but your mouth smells like shit and I don’t want to taste it. If you want a kiss so badly, give it to one of your gothic vampire boyfriends!”

Nick began to stir ever so slowly as he reached his hand for his chest once again. “Please…take me to the hospital. I’m having a heart attack. I’m dying!”

“Oh, you’re going to die alright. There may be a crescent moon out tonight, but that doesn’t mean I’m going home hungry. Crescent Moon Party? How insulting is that? We would have hunted your kind down no matter what the skies forecasted!”

The vampire breathed weakly and looked at Tufu with a confused expression. “You’re…you’re a werewolf?”

“Surprise, surprise, little man!” said Tufu with a hearty chuckle. “Just because I don’t walk around with fur everywhere, doesn’t mean I can’t chow down on your disgusting body anytime I want. I’m sick of waiting around for a full moon! If Mother Nature doesn’t give me what I want, I’ll just take it from her filthy, rotting hands!”

A tired smile formed across Nick’s face as he said, “Thank you, Tofu. Thank you…for giving me Soda as a delicious meal…and for showing everybody here what idiots you werewolves really are. Crescent Moon Party? Give me a fucking break. We’re not scared of you. On the contrary…” The suddenly healthy vampire floated in the air and aligned his feet with the sand to stand upright. “You should be scared of us!”

Tufu looked around in the fiery light and saw that Nick’s vampire friends were surrounding him in a circle. The trench-coat donning creatures of the night licked their lips and bore their fangs. Some of them started touching their own bodies in a sexual manner to signify how hungry for blood they really were. A fat-ass like Tufu would feed them well.

“No…no, no, no! This is ridiculous! I’ve been set up!” shouted the fearful werewolf.

“You’ve been set up alright, Chunky Puff. Let me ask you a question: who’s the real cannibal around here? Creatures of the night, dinner is served!”

Battleground

Charles McLean was a lucky man, either because of his Irish heritage or the fact that he could very well have a golden horseshoe up his ass. Only someone of his luck could say he was allowed to train at Battleground MMA Gym despite constantly knocking out and injuring his sparring partners. Did he even know the proper rules for sparring? Was he even dimly aware that knockouts and injuries weren’t supposed to happen? Did he already lose sight of the fact that it was all supposed to be practice and not an actual fight?

Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.

It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.

Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.

But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.

With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.

He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.

“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.

Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.

Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.

“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.

Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.

But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.

“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.

And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.

Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.

Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.

The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.

Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.

By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.

One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”

“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.

“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”

The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”