Xanth
Before the bastard can spit in my face, I sling my baton into his groin.
All these f*****g troublemakers think they are so smart. This asshole crumples, gasping for air. Two of his buddies emerge from around the corner and I straighten, ready for them.
But they've got the f*****g triangle tattoos on their neck. The sign for the underground and the pleasure-play tournaments for the gods.
Below the prison is a different type of hell. One of survival and no place for fools. The prisoners down there are catered to if they survive the battles. Righteous bastards with wide egos stuffed up their asses. Their special visits from the gods turns them all into power-tripping zealots.
"He's one of ours," the shaved guy grunts. "Has a fight this evening."
I don't f*****g care, but unless
