Bob.
Bob lifted his glass encrusted wooden bats above his head and shouted a mindless guttural call for my blood up to the braying crowd above. I raised the cut down sickle named “Toothpick” above my head and gave a half hearted stuttering bark. This seemed to be some kind of signal, because Bob charged towards me. The speed with which he crossed the arena was tremendous.
I saw his first blow coming. I tried to bring the toothpick up to block it, but I was far to slow. The bat struck my left shoulder and I screamed as the glass shards tore away great chunks of my flesh. The second blow was a complete surprise as it perforated my midsection. Before I could do anything besides scream with the pain I was on my back in the mud and the shit.
Bob stood above me; his bats raised over his head, his namesake scar rippling as his muscles tensed up for the final blow. As the bats came down I saw my multifaceted reflection in those brutal weapons and when I saw my own weeping eyes the whole world shuttered to a stop.