Shit.

When I entered the pit the only smell that could reach my brain was of shit. The ground was wet with it. Great pools of runny brown regret. Above me was bright light and men braying for my death. The sound descended upon me like a great wall of blood lust. Washing over me, helping me add to the pools at my feet.

The toothpick seemed impossible in my hand. I could not use it. I could not plunge it into the hot flesh of another man. I could not shed blood. I could not fight in this place. No matter the cause. No matter how much I needed to before. This thing in my hand weighed me down and brought me to my knees.

Across from me came a squelch. A wet disgusting notification that I was not alone in this place. Looking up I saw a man. Or so I thought. He was strong and thick. Naked except for a leather loin clothe and a hockey mask. His arms stained up to his elbows in blood. In each hand was a short bat with glass embedded in it. Carved in his chest was a single word: Bob.

Shit.