Showdown
The swinging tramcar let out a cavalcade of moaning creaks as its neglected mechanisms spun. They protested, but they turned. They threatened to break, and yet they held. The linked chains of the electric drive protested as they dragged two tons of metal and plastic up a steeply turning switchback long ago blasted into the side of the mountain. The aged and grimy plastic had lost its hue decades ago to the constant ashfall, the windows blurred with the cataracts of abrasive grit. The diminutive air conditioner wheezed through its condenser coils, and spilled musty cool air into the cabin, where Carl and Spot rode. The speaker crackled with the distortion of a slowly rotting reel to reel as it migrated between spindles.
Its droning lecture were ignored by the two occupants. Carl reclined on a rotting bench, his attention firmly placed in a slender volume on eugenics, while Spot took the usual place at his master's feet. Occasionally the snow leopard would look out the window at the roiling clouds of ash and soot that poured down from the caldera, covering the slopes and smudging the tramcar windows. He sniffed through the thick plugs that filled his nostrils, the biological contaminant filters doing well enough to keep the volcanic vapors out, even if they did smell annoyingly of pine. Spot suffered through the sulfuric aromas without complaint, his massive slumbering frame occasionally twitching during some vivid dream.
It was some time before the antiquated tramcar finally crept to the lip of the caldera, to its final station. The metal of its clasps creaked as connectors kissed and bolts locked into place. The doors hissed open with a soft protest, allowing a tidal wave of heat to wash in from the nearby lava flows. The platform itself was as lackluster as the tramcar, little more than a metal decking and a pylon to support the guide chains that the pod swung from. Two steps led down to a rocky, ash strewn footpath, beyond which lay the caldera itself, and the Tower, cast in shadow and flame.
Stepping out into the false evening provided by thick clouds of ash, Carl surveyed the massive spire of rock that jutted from the very center of the lava filled caldera. Surrounded on all sides by a roiling sea of glowing lava hundreds of feet below, the twisted tor jabbed at the sky like a stiletto. Its sides were carved by nature and craftsmen, alternating bands of porous tuff and glossy stripes of black glass. Blisters of failed pyroclastic flows bulged from its sides like buboes, and open pores gaped like wounds. The hideous amalgam of unbroken glassy artistry and twisted chaotic formations tapered and curved to meet in a flat butte at least a dozen stories above the caldera rim. There was the the only sign of life, a dirigibles painted gray moored at the very summit. Looking at the edifice for the first time, Carl understood how the natives had thought it a holy place.
Directly ahead of him lay the lip of the caldera, the footpath from the platform leading to a delicate strand of rock that spun to the Tower in the center. Uneven, narrow, and precarious, the walkway did not promise an easy trip. The smallest miscalculation, the shifting of an inch on that volcanic glass, could end in a fall to the molten rock below. The additions of metal bracing and spidery handrails to the delicate stone arches did little to assuage the snowcat's anxiety, and he glanced back at the collection of boxes that held his surgical suite. It would not be possible to take any but the barest essentials across that precarious pathway. Priority for some, abandonment for others, and in fact the sorting list was just forming fully in his mind where a roaring sound washed over him.
The source of the sound was from on high, from the massive airship parked just above the spire, its gargantuan speakers roaring dully as they charged up. A slightly foreign voice, calm but with authority, spoke clearly and with a full measure. "Contestants. Long and weary was the road through perdition, only by strength and craft have you persevered." The speakers warbled, flexing in the heated, acidic vapors. "Here in the forge of Vulcanus, the challenge is ever greater. From this trial of flame and fell deeds there can be but a single victor. Defeat and discard the dross, rise to the top, and lay claim to the shining prize. He is waiting for you here." The crackling grew louder, the vocal distortion worsening before the speakers fell silent.
Dr. Lanskowski turned his eyes and ears back to his kit, and as he sorted he thought of Doctor Faustus.
************************************************************************************
Trevor panted heavily as he pushed through the laminated doors of the entry level lobby, his head swimming. The noxious fumes themselves were troublesome, but the fungal spores and molds that filled his lungs exacerbated the handicap. The okapi all but threw himself onto the gleaming polished floor, sucking in as much as he could manage of the highly filtered and well cooled air into his burning, infected lungs. The relief of easy breathing was so great, it almost removed his mind from the pain of all the other thick, bloody wounds that were scored in his hide. Caked with volcanic ash and grit, every breath seemed to make those wounds scrape at exposed nerve endings with the caked in silicates, opening his body up to further bleeding and infection. Trevor stained the floor with streaks of grime and blood, yellow seeping pus puddling in the tiled joints as he rested, recovering from the dangerous crossing.
It would be so easy to sleep, to rest, to give in to the aching fatigue that seemed to soak him from horns to hooves but he couldn't surrender himself to Morpheus. He had to stay focused if he wanted to survive, keep his eyes and ears open for the others he had seen crossing to the Tower. One of them might be near, closing in, and the okapi's heart quickened. He stifled a groan as he pushed himself off the floor, coming up slow from sore muscles and the drying fluids that gummed up his fur. Turning on all fours, the young male pushed himself back onto his bare paws and forced himself to hold still. Listening. There, a sound came to him, soft and small but a sound none the less. A door scraping, the tap of a hard sole on tile, and voices. Another contestant. A victim.
The okapi crept forward, around the massive curving reception desk with its avant garde stylings to peer at the newly arrived person. A snow leopard, all in immaculate white, thanks to a now wadded up cloth. The glossy surgical coat and black latex gloves created a high contrast that mated well with the spotted fur patterns. It made Trevor think of a bullseye. In fact, the more he looked at the grooming cat, the more exciting the prospect of hurting him became. Perhaps it was just the infection coursing through his veins, but his brain felt on fire with the possibilities of seeing the leopard's red blood wash across the tiles. Perhaps eating the doctor cat's nuts would ease his pain, as well - take two and never call again. Trevor broke into a run just as the cat turned away to call out for something..
Carl hummed to himself quietly as he wiped the last of the ash from his coat, restoring the pristine beauty of the glossy stain-resistant material. It turned out that the fabric shunned ash as well as blood, which came in handy for keeping his many sheathed scalpels and syringes safe. He sighed softly, thinking of all the equipment left behind, his bone saws and rib cutters and cleavers - all that remained of the larger tools was the surgical hook hanging from his belt. It had helped get him across the terrible walkway with its slick glass and narrow width. "Spot. Heel boy." He called loud and clear, just the smallest hint of annoyance in his voice at the sudden disappearance of his pet. Carl heard the slapping of bloody pawfalls just in time to turn and see the okapi in full sprint, flat-tooth mouth opened in a silent primal scream. A fine misting of blood, ash, and pus trailed behind the wounded ungulate as he really broke into his adrenaline fueled stride.
The leopard stepped toward him, which surprised Trevor greatly, who had expected him to dodge or back away. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his overheated brain, but this far into his charge the young male felt committed. When the leopard turned the step-in motion into a jackhammer jab that exploded fresh pain through the whole of Trevor's snout, the feeling of aggressive predation began to deflate. Off balance, Trevor spun on unsteady hooves sideways, missing the cat completely. His hips slammed into another desk, or a table - something hard that sent ragged bolts of agony through his tender flesh. He left bloody pawprints along the slick surface as he scrabbled to hold his balance and avoid simply flipping over the furnishing. His eyes stayed on the leopard, shocked at the comically old-fashioned boxing stance the felid struck, both hands held high defensively. It was less funny when another jab, and then a one-two combination sent him to the now incredibly filthy floor.
"First in my pugilism class, creature, as I am in all things. Note how the disciplined martial arts of the civilized man lays low with ease the primal panicked pouncings of the primitive animal. I waste my breath on you, however. You cannot understand anything but my tone, can you, creature?" The snow leopard spoke with precise diction, his words crafted to convey a sickening level of soothing patronization. "Poor thing. You have simply gone mad with your injuries." On the floor, Trevor struggled to move himself again, but after exerting his energy for the failed charge and getting beaten, his muscled failed him. Blood ran freely from his nose, into his muzzle where he sputtered on it and swallowed a tooth. The thick, coagulating fluid that filled his throat sent his chest into spasms, and his entire frame was rocked by a coughing fit that stretched his clotting wounds open anew.
"Let me help you." The leopard crooned, kneeling down beside the prostrate okapi, a glittering syringe descending in parallel to plunge into his neck. The spasms ceased, smothered by the drugs carried in the steel, but the pain never stopped. With a soft squelch, Trevor's body went limp in stages, going flat into the growing puddle of fluid that spread across the floor. His eyes rolled, focusing on the leopard first, then the ceiling, the bloody desk, the huge hulking shadow of some great beast. This would be the end for the okapi, after all the luck and million to one shots. All that suffering, for this - beaten, drugged, and about to be castrated. "There. You may well hurt yourself. Such a shame, I would think. Such a pretty little thing, such a slender frame. I imagine that you would have had quite a dainty gait, and been well suited to shows and exhibitions. Wasted potential, if only you had fallen to the guidance of the master race, accepted your animal status, you would have lived a long and useful life."
The leopard tutted softly, his blood-spattered gloves slowly and gently probing at Trevor's chest, feeling his ribs and tracing carefully the cuts and bruises. The largest wounds were scrutinized, his hide gently tugged, and even the lightest touch seemed to find a new source of pain and blood. "Tried to go feral, completely unprepared for a world without a Master. Look at you now. Mold and fungus in all these wounds, massive systemic infection, everything a total loss." The gore-covered gloves traveled even lower, past Trevor's sheath, to lift up his swollen and tender calf-makers. Heavy with unspent seed and the biological factories that generated his spunk, Trevor's orbs bulged with a new and hideous weight. Infection had struck, and both right and left had fallen prey to swelling and tender inflammation. Had he the ability, Trevor would have screamed in anguish as his overburdened balls were drawn tight together and pulled out and away. Bunched up into the bottom of his sack and tautly compressed, the okapi could still feel even through his whole body pain the delicate sensation of his seminiferous tubules popping like balloons.
With his free hand, Carl drew one of the scalpels from its holster, turning it over to adopt a delicate grip. Almost daintily, he grasped it carefully between his fingers and brought it down in a sweeping motion toward the band of stretched skin along the base of Trevor's ballsac. The leopard was very deliberate in the firm tugging on those infected nuts, keeping the fuzzy okapi's pouch stretched taut and ripe for cutting. The cool steel sliced into the puffy, mold-covered fuzz like it were butter, and immediately watery pinkish fluid began to flow. "Such a deep infection. It's even worse than I thought." Carl murmured the commentary for his own benefit as he turned his hand, following the contours to deliver a clean cut. Extra force was needed, and runny rivulets of fungus-choked blood tried to stay his blade from its appointed course. Around, and then a looping twist to neatly sever the cords completed the straightforward castration of the sick little runner.
"Normally I would sew that up nice and neatly, but in this case, well." Carl turned slightly, and dropped the dribbling nuts into the closest wastebasket where they squished sickeningly. Unshot cum, blood, sperm, pus, and colonies of mold sloshed in the bottom of the fluted metal tube, almost deep enough to float the blackened seed-factories. "I am afraid it is too late for you. The best I can afford a poor feral creature like yourself is liquid mercy." Another syringe was drawn, this one very slender, and unmarked. The red cap was removed from the needle, which found its way into the center of Trevor's chest just under the breastbone. "There there, little thing. Soon all the pain will go away. Soon. Rest easy." Empty, the syringe splashed into the wastebasket as well. Then the soiled scalpel, and black gloves. All that medical waste floating in a sea of failed potential, seed that would never be, nuts that would never breed, a male that would end with himself.
Carl stood up, snapped on another pair of gloves, and chastised Spot. "No. He is filthy and diseased. Do not eat him. Come. I will find you something else. Heel." The leopard's boots clicked on the tile, and Spot's huge plodding was a silent counterpoint for Trevor to contemplate. Dimly, he could hear the leopard reading a placard or map. "Lobby One..... Elevated Lobby......Cryo-Lab, PR....oh, express elevator....." Then that sound faded into the background, and after that it all faded out for the okapi. The paralysis of his limbs had spread to his mind, or perhaps it was the second syringe, or perhaps it was the bacteria and mold that had entered his cuts and lungs that finally sieged the last stronghold. For him, everything just receded away.
Trevor could swear he sighed, but he made no sound. He made no movement. He could hear nothing but his own heart sluggishly plodding along, a deep, internal sound. He saw the bright white ceiling and the indirect lighting that shone upon it like a bright summer's day. He could feel the floor beneath him becoming softer. Softer still, like a down comforter, and his own body weight sinking into it.
Impossible for tile to turn into feather-down, or sponge, but that is how it felt and his entire body was just sinking lower and lowering into an okapi shaped hole. The sides of the floor he had been resting on slid past his muzzle silently as a ship at midnight, and he sank deeper and quieter into the floor. He felt so heavy and just so calm, the sound of his heart fading now into the far dim background. The self-shaped hole he had sunk into was now above him, a bright white cut-out of his own silhouette that glimmered with the industrial lights. His own personal spotlight at the top of his comfortable, safe, quiet hole; a sanctuary where he could rest without fear.
Or was it the moon instead, so white and so far above that it had to be celestial?
Better to rest.
***********************************************************************************
With Spot at his side, Carl ascended the central steps that spiraled lazily off the lower lobby, his boots clacking softly against the polished marble tiles. The gargantuan beast at his side padded silently, its tail swinging like a wave of leather. At the top of the stairs a pair of double doors waited, and they swung open with a touch of the paw, allowing entry into the cavernous Elevated Lobby that seemed to fill half the tower's volume. Postmodern to the point of Escher-esque, the Elevated Lobby consisted of spiraling stairs that went up the walls and across vast empty gulfs, making patterns that required a flexible system of gravitational orientation to utilize properly. Panes of glass, some plain, others mirrored and one-way, rode on rails and through slots to divide and reshape the Lobby continuously. When the stairs themselves suddenly began to shift orientation, Carl realized that the lobby was more labyrinth than anything else. Crossing it would be a challenge.
"Spot." Carl snapped his gloved fingers, commanding his pet's attention. "Alertness." The power of the command was worn deeply into the animal's brain, and in a moment the lazy lolling ears and tail pricked up. The massive hooded muzzle began to swing left and right in a slow, deliberate search pattern, all senses keenly probing for the presence of others. Satisfied at the obedience of his animal, Carl turned to the left and the closest stair. "Heel." He spoke, softly, as he ascended with the animal at his side. The staircase, all metal and marble with complex hinges and rails, quivered slightly but held their weight as they climbed through a swarm of glass and onto one of the many mobile platforms. Their weight was scarcely off the stairs before the structure shifted, steps rising to join together in a flat ramp, the base swinging over and up. The way back was obliterated, but new avenues of ascent opened up before them as other stairs slid into place where glass walls had been. The display was as ostentatious as it was technically remarkable.
Carl's lips curled slightly into a mildly disgusted sneer at the sheer waste of it all. So much beauty, gone unappreciated by the animals that ascended it. What a burden, to be the only man among the contestants, the sole appreciator of such splendor. Would he had the time to admire the machinations, he would have, but Charn waited for him at the apex of the tower. His eyes observed the motions of the glass, the swinging of the stairs and ramps, but for the purpose of locomotion and not aesthetics. Abstract reasoning and pattern recognition were required to discover a route, both capabilities mere animals would not possess, and therefore Carl did not expect to meet with much competition along the way.
Discovering the chubby, pantless groundhog three platforms up did come as quite the surprise for just that reason. The larger platform did have a graceful little corridor that ran off through the side, labeled 'Auxiliary Sky Bridge Access' which did go a long way toward explaining the situation, but still it was mildly startling at least. The feeling was mutual, as attested by the terrified expression that plastered across the tousled little rodent's muzzle when ambushed. In the sound of the shifting stairs, Carl's bootfalls had blended in, and Spot always moved silently. The pair was upon the groundhog before he knew it, dagger teeth closing onto his arm tightly and his scream stifled by a gloved hand over his snout.
"Well. Another contestant, am I right?" Carl spoke in his typical lilt, educated and slightly patronizing as if discovering some errant stray on his doorstep. Spot growled low, and held fast to the chubby forearm in his maw, razor fangs drawing tiny beads of blood. The leopard's iceberg blue eyes stroked down the terrified muzzle, cataloging the ruffled fur, the wrinkled shirt, alighting on the filthy press badge still steadfastly clinging to the lapel. With his free hand, Carl plucked it off and read it. "Jules Quaboggan. A journalist, reporting on the events from within?" His lips turned upward so slightly as his eyes slipped over the edge of the card, spying the recent rough stitches and obvious absence of testes.
Instantly the softness went from the leopard's tone, and the press badge dropped from his fingers to the ground. "You don't belong here." The change in demeanor was mirrored instantly by Spot, and the tiny beads turned into fat tears of thick red blood as the groundhog's forearm was perforated. "Why are you here if you do not belong?" The question came quietly, but with a hardness that spoke of a deep and fundamental danger. Carl's free hand grasped tightly on Jules' collar, twisting it tight against the chubby male's neck as a handle. In one motion, master and servant moved together to pitch the groundhog backwards. Balanced on his heels and supported only by the grasping hand and maw, Jules flailed over the edge of the platform, perched over a deadly fall into open space. Close by, panes of glass moved with deceptive speed, and somehow the reporter knew the edges would be razor sharp.
The hand on his snout released, allowing the terrified rodent to squeak in horror as he windmilled on the edge of doom. "B-b-becker brought me!" He squealed, fear trembling through every flabby inch of his chubby body, mixed with a healthy amount of pain as cotton dug into his neck, and teeth drilled deeper into his arm. "The Boss! Big rhino!" The groundhog is jabbering now, almost incoherent as he can feel his flesh and shirt slowly but surely beginning to strain and tear. After which he would plunge a few stories to some very unforgiving marble. Or maybe the clacking, softly whistling panes of glass will slide along the edge of the platform he's dangling over and slice him like a Thanksgiving turkey. The gleaming edge of the nearest pane caught the light, blinding bright like a torch. "He took me in as his lil buddy! He nutted me to to to to keep me safe!" Jules is crying now, his paws ineffectually trying to grasp on Carl's outstretched arm and failing to grip the slick fabric of the leopard's smock. "He said he'd be right back! He said I'd be safe!"
Carl allowed the groundhog to jibber random information and repeated platitudes about the rhino and how well the two of them were connected. How the massive male cared for the chubby little reporter, how he'd be right back to make him safe. The missives became tiresome in short order, and the black-gloved hand clamped firm once more around Jules' snout. "Animals keeping pets." To the reporter's relief, his rotund body was dragged back onto the platform, a few seconds shy of being sliced by glass or falling to his death. Though the jaw that held his forearm and the hand that twisted his collar still pained him. "Such madness. Still. I think you may have a purpose. Did you notice, during your blubbering, the reflections? A monochrome male approaching from the right. A gray creature descending from the left." There was a long and pregnant pause there, as Carl watched the groundhog's face for any glimmer of cognition, of awareness of repercussions. Spot panted, his breath hot as it washed over the bloody arm still clamped firmly in his jaws.
"No? Well. I think I will just leave you here, little hog." An incredulous expression of relief began to blossom in slow motion across the groundhog's muzzle. Even the black-gloved hand clamped over his snout couldn't stop the slow advance of shuddering relief. Relief that was all too short lived, as Spot began to tug hard on his forearm. Now there is a pain in the shoulder, and the leopard's flat smile as the scalpel digs into the joint, severing ligament and tendon. The pain shoots like fire, the scream from within barreling up like a geyser through the throat. Stifled, smothered, pent up and withered by the strong hand and latex glove that held his maw shut like a vise. Feebly, in shock from the sudden pain, Jules flailed with his right paw as his other arm was ripped from the socket. Flabby, rarely exercised muscle tore like wrapping paper as master and servant engaged in their little cut and tug, The brachial artery snapped like a rubber band and began to spray a hot copper-tinged shower that stained the glass and marble alike. The groundhog's fear filled heart thudded like a jackhammer, sending squirt after squirt of blood out, emptying a quarter of his blood volume before the freshly severed arm hit the floor. Thankfully, Jules passed into bleak unconsciousness with the speed of a hangman's trapdoor as his blood pressure plummeted. Things went from white, to black, with nary a byline.
Carl allowed his fingers to uncurl, for the dying body of the once aspiring reporter to slump down, surrendered to gravity's slow grip. The doctor is more interested in that slightly round potbelly, his fingers playing across the curve as it sinks to the marble. A scalpel traces a curve through the fur, the skin, the fat, all the way to the organs. The black gloved hands reached inside, and with more or less than a meager effort turned the groundhog partly inside out. Blood and organs slopped out in an untidy mess, spreading across the slick marble in a growing pool of gore and viscera. Spot, content to nibble on the arm in his maw, feigned disinterest. "Drop it. Heel." Carl stood, hefting several of the juicer organs, liver, a lung, and all in one hand. He also recovered the now gore-splattered press badge. Around him, the glass is shifting, ramps and steps beginning to align, groaning under the weight of approaching hoofed hunters.
"Heel." There is no need to say it twice, the massive predatory pet is following as obedient as a shadow, but the repetition underscores the urgency. A wave of one bloody-dripping hand sent Spot scurrying up a narrow corkscrew of a walkway that is almost disengaged. Carl turned, and focused all his felid grace into a single fluid maneuver. His leg, stepping back and gliding along the edge of the corkscrew as it unlocked from the platform edge. His arm swinging up, transferring his center of gravity back toward his heel, the organs wobbling as centrifugal force seized them. Carl transferred some of his momentum to the delicate, still steaming organs, and let them fly. They soaked up just enough inertia to keep the good doctor from tumbling to a rather nasty death several stories below, and coincidentally the proper amount to sail across the platform in a shallow arc that intersected nicely with Jack Darling's entrance from a lower staircase.
The razor edged pane of glass that shaved an eighth of an inch from his boot was frosted, translucent but far from transparent. Suggestions of shapes and colors filtered through, and not much beyond. The clacking of mechanisms, the swishing of glass, and the humming of the volcano itself acted as an auditory version. So Carl could not hear, nor see the organs strike Jack. Or vice versa, as the big game hunter lashed out with a paw studded with blunt, strong hoof-fingers from reflex. The deep, sensual drawl of the thick Australian accent lolled out of those thick, pillowy lips, words all hardened with distaste as the blood pinata added contrast to the bi-color hide. "Oi, the fuck is all this?" Carl could see in his mind's eye the rolling motion of the eyes and the wrinkle of the nose as the confused zebra considered the origin of the visceral gore splattered everywhere. More importantly, Carl could see with his glittering blue eyes the sliver of gray around the corner of another pane as Becker descended onto the platform. "Jules?" The voice was just as expected, thick and ruggedly masculine as it poured from a snout gray and armored on the outside, but so soft and captivatingly pink on the inside. Wet, even, wet as the blood-soaked marble.
Carl suppressed a smile as he rode the corkscrew up, paying more attention to his footing and the ascent than the platform below. The bellowing, the stomping, he could hear it but could not see the action. This was deliberate, as he kept the rotating panes of glass between himself and the other males below, hiding himself until he had progressed somewhat. Distance gained, he looked back down from above and to the left. Rhinoceros and zebra circled each other, paws out, back hunched. A lunge, a feint, and out came the rhino's knife. Fresh red splattered across a passing pane as the too-slow zebra was nicked. He rolled, and kicked powerfully to gain some space. "You call that a knoife?" The big game hunter drew his own blade, rivaling Becker's in size. "This is a knoife!" They closed to cutting range, and as suddenly as the view had become available it vanished behind a glittering rectangle of mirror.
Stairways shifted into unusable configurations, ramps turned, and the moving glass reflected it all back into itself, a Gordian Knot of ascension. Not just the way up, but also the way back down, all white and black. Also red, but just one place, one platform. The mirrors turned, and in them reflected were a multitude of Becker, bounty hunter, and a matching number of Jack Darling, big game hunter. Locked in a deadly waltz, knives upraised and paws clenching on wrists to hold back the other's fatal blow. In the mirror, one could almost see their snorting flared nostrils sharing breath, the sweat that glistened on their powerful torsos as their chests ground together. Their legs straining for purchase on the bloody marble, their cocks bouncing and slapping together. One gray, one black, twins in size and heft if not color, and each driven by low hanging testes that slapped together wetly with the snap of sweat-slicked skin. Every inch of their bodies clashed, slapped, ground, but all for the benefit of the knives that wriggled and sought blood, shiny as the dozens of mirrors that held the two males prisoner over and over again.
Ahead, Carl at last reached the end of the Lobby, the final threshold to the summit. A broad platform, and two gaping doorways beckoned. The labels read 'Express Elevator' and through the open doors the lit shafts revealed little but the tracks intended for platforms to ride along the smooth stone. "Here we are." He turned, to pet Spot's head affectionately, rubbing the blood deeper into the black leather to give it a protein enhanced shine. The sound of shattering glass and a heavy scream drew the leopard's eyes downward for the last time. Like most knife fights, things had ended decisively on the platform where Jules lay dismembered. Sliced and bruised, Becker had managed to make up lost ground and land a fatal blow, his massive knife lodged between Jack's ribs. Even from so far above, Carl could see how the blade has kissed right through to the heart. Limp, deep in shock perhaps, the big zebra gives little resistance to Becker's direction. The brush knife is pulled from the striped hoofpaw as Jack begins to go slack and heavy, held up by Becker's strength and the knife betwixt his ribs. Carl cannot hear what is said between them, but he can watch the brush knife curve down. Its blade still dripped with Becker's blood, even as the huge rhinoceros used it to cleave Jack's massive sausage in twain. The deep ebony mass is thick as a young tree, but under the sharpened edge it splits as if dry-rotted. Blood sprays, coating the blade as it descends lower. The peculiar curved tip of the hunter's favorite blade, so good for skinning and slicing, bites into the heavy, swollen nut pouch with ease. Becker twists expertly, and frees a pair of balls the size of his fists. He twists again, and severs the cord. His wrist flicks, sending them both off the edge of the platform. Chore done, Becker plunges the knife into one beautiful thigh like a meathook, and by using the knives as handles Jack is dragged to the edge of the platform. SNICK! A passing pane slid through the thick muscle and dense bone like butter, and in a spiral of blood limbs began to fly. SNACK! Becker's knife is yanked free, retained, as the corpse is sliced, organs and bone scattering in a slow tumble to the ground floor.
With a small sigh, Carl entered the elevator and pressed the UP button. The door closed with a soft ding.
***********************************************************************************
The smooth-polished walls of volcanic rock passed by on all sides, broken only by the tracks the lift platform used to haul itself towards the summit. Underfoot, the machinery cranked with a strained sound which troubled Spot. The massive feral beast stalked from handrail to handrail, a nervous counterpoint to his calm master. Eerily composed, Carl took the time during the ascent to adjust his smock, cleaning from it the blood and gore of his most recent conquest. His fingertips played over the sheathed syringes and scalpels, counting their dwindled numbers with a mild concern. His thumb traveled down the shaft of his surgical hook like a raindrop, tracing its contours as he centered himself. "There is but one contestant left, Spot. The rhino, the very essence of unrestrained animal masculinity and muscle. Like a mirror darkly, that creature shows the cruel fate you avoided. A painful life of a lies and self deceit, of sorrow and pain buried in denial, suffering and rejection. He will be made to take his proper place, as you have. Today, I subjugate this rhinoceros, and soon all the inferior races." The leopard allowed himself a hint of a glittering smile as he monologued to the to pacing beast. His hand alighted on the leather hooded and masked muzzle of his great beast, and began to stroke. "Very soon, my pet."
Above them, a trio of lights blinked on and off, then changed color. This was the signal that the very roof of the shaft they rode through was opening, like a long-closed eye, allowing in the red hellish light of the volcano's artificial twilight. The sulfurous stench of the bubbling magma slurped its way down to the lift as the platform slowed, and ash blew across the decking. With a soft groaning, the shaft-born lift came to rest level with the top of the massive volcanic spire. The narrow spine terminated in a mostly flat tip of volcanic tephra that was smooth and level enough to provide easy walking. The perimeter was ringed with large outcroppings of black volcanic glass, as if the tower was crowned in shadow. Gaping holes of smooth obsidian that glowed with the orange light of lava promised slippery shafts that emptied into the molten caldera, and from them clouds of brimstone and ash belched. Placed in some arcanely significant but otherwise random fashion were great blocks of stone carved with demons and saints, the long abandoned altars of the native peoples to their blasphemous gods. In the center of it all rested a final spire of black rock, the tower itself in miniature, forming a dais upon which a black throne sat.
In that throne rested Charn, surrounded by his retinue of guards and aides. Four ursines, incredibly tall and broad, formed his Praetorian guard. Their massive bodies were well equipped with armor and filtered helmets designed to function in the noxious fumes that spewed from all sides. Their belt-fed large caliber machine guns stayed at the ready, their muzzles tracking targets and the multi-colored assortment of various rounds clinking softly. Red, blue, yellow, black, their bullets were every color, each to a purpose, each to kill or counter a different threat. At their sides hung automatic shotguns, grenades, and whatever weapons of war that seemed necessary to protect their tiger lord, enough firepower to vanquish a small army. Closer to the throne, at the very right hand of Charn stood his aide-de-camp, a youngish ferret of the black footed variety. In business slacks and a waistcoat, the slender whippy weasel was a marked change from the brutish bruins, but even he was armed. Slung in an Italian leather shoulder holster rode a nickeled pistol with ivory grips, a stylish accommodation to the practicality of self defense. No filtered mask, but a stoic expression graced his muzzle, which frequently turned in the direction of his commandant.
Charn himself bore no weapons, for he had no need of them. The great male that lorded over men, commanded them, inspired them, and unmade them, radiated with a power and intensity that overwhelmed his surroundings into submission with the sheer force of a dark charisma. His noble and proud face held a look of stern importance, and his golden eyes shone like the sun with vision. His black suit was ostentatious in its austerity, daring in design but conservative in ideal, tailor fit but at the same time inadequate to hold him. The very rock itself seemed burdened by the tiger's gravitas, and even seated Charn towered above his knot of retainers as a giant. Behind him, the floating airships projected onto the hazy clouds the sigil by which he was known, marking the sky itself under his livery. For perhaps the first time ever in his life, Carl felt himself in the presence of an equal - he dare not think superior.
The sound of grinding gears tore Carl's gaze from the radiant male upon the throne, and cast his attention back to the sacrificial grounds. Opposite of the throne, another hatch was opening to allow a platform to rise. In symmetry, both elevators aligned dexter and sinister to the throne, placing the killing ground between them in the direct eye line of the dais. From the other elevator, a gray head rose to view, followed by the spectacularly framed and muscled bulk of Boss 'Schnozz' Becker. Though nude but for a cheetah-skin belt and knife, the massive male stepped from the lift platform with an arrogant swagger. The superficial cuts and bruises, even the large gash along his side, he ignored them. The way the slightly acid air stung at his skin, the warmth that unfurled his massive flaccid cock to catch the irritating ash, even the sulfur that began to coat his lungs - he endured. In a way, much could be admired of the gray-skinned male, having come so far in so many paw to paw brawls that carried such high risks with only the wounds he carried.
With both contestants on the scene, the airships began to project something new. First the image of each person, Carl looking cold and regal, Becker cocksure and energetic. "Here now stand two champions of conquest." The huge speakers hanging from the airships roared with the pre-recorded, bombastic message, setting the pebbles to quake and eardrums to ache. "Behind them, a trail of blood and triumph." The speakers crackled, straining in the caustic atmosphere as the projectors began to show in sequence their victims. Photographs taken in recovery rooms for the living, on-site for corpses, each picture elegantly captured by a master of the craft.
"See the unworthy fallen. Castrated, emasculated, and utterly without power. These poor souls......wary......" The speakers crackled, their sound distorting as the harsh environmental conditions overwhelmed them. The projections faltered as well, dimming as a prelude, and then going dark. On the dais, the ferret raised a paw to his ear, toggling an earpiece of some kind. The young male leaned in, and murmured into the ears of the tiger.
The dapper little ferret quietly spoke into Charn's perked ear for a moment. The awkward silence was broken only by the hissing of rising vapor, and the muted roar of the churning molten rock far below. Becker took the chance to more fully appraise his opponent, paws on his hips and turning his snout this way and that for different angles of view of the leopard. The brawny male even tipped his horn slightly, smirking to display his cavalier confidence. Dr. Lanskowski responded with a very cool tilt of the ears, and the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Not the most welcoming of responses. Upon the dais, Charm raised his hand, and cut the ferret's unheard words off with a gesture.
Charm rose from his throne, in a slow and fluid motion, completely unhurried. Standing tall, the master of ceremonies spoke. "Technical issues are trivial." His voice reverberated off the rocks, it blasted through the clouds of vapor. The sound was unstoppable, as powerful and as clear as the speaker. "I am concerned with meeting the victor. Give your statements, and commence." Having spoken his concise command, the striped feline returned to the throne, gesturing to begin.
Becker took the initiative with keyed interest, taking another step away from the lift platform, closer to the dais and to Carl. "Let me say this- I have struggled my whole life. I have overcome hardships, trials and tribulations. I have been to prison, paid my dues and come out a better man. I have sacrificed and I have fought hard for this. I lost a lot on the way, too. Not just my years, but my dear friends that were snuffed out of life too soon. I am going to win this, not just for me, but for them. And there ain't nothing you can say or do that'll prove you the better man, cat."
Carl refused to be intimidated, adopting a neutral stance and mirroring the rhino step for step. "Perhaps flippant, but I am the only finalist that has mastered pants. Does that prove anything?" He was sure to evoke a slightly mocking tone, and to play one hand down the front of his smock. "In seriousness, though, I am the only man here. Consider your own words, 'better man', implying that there is a disparity. Some men are superior, some inferior, and I would suggest some are not men at all. Consider this radical notion, that some men are merely animals of a lower sort cleverly imitating the civilized actions of people."
The stalking leopard responded to the incredulous expression of his opponent by allowing a seductive purr rise to from his chest as he moved even closer, the shadowed form of Spot slinking in and out of darkness behind him. "You were in prison, as you said. Did you spend your time there seeing only men? Or did you bear witness to the rapacious, primal violence and ego of animals? Irrational, violent, and unable to function in society as men because they were not men." His voice adopted a pedagogical tone, informative and softly non-threatening. "You must agree. After you were freed, you became a bounty hunter. You stalked them like animals, you beat and raped them like animals, and you did it for an audience. For sport. To satiate your our primal urges like the animal you are."
That casual barb at the tail end caught Becker by surprise. Lulled into a partially passive state by the soothing tone and manner, the huge rhino had almost, almost, become engaged in the conversation. After all, the crazy cat had started with a grain of truth there. "Bullshit." The huge male snorted, almost breaking into a cough from the sulfur and ash floating in the air. "Those monsters may be heartless animals, sure. I'm not like them though, I catch them." Becker crossed both his massive arms across the expanse of his muscled chest, closing off his stance defensively. "Those beasts kill and mutilate the innocent, for any reason and no reason. They're just that way."
The noxious fumes roiled, and curled into tiny frustrated knots of vapor against the bio-filters jammed into the slender cat's nose. Carl always breathed in through his nostrils, and here the habit paid off, as the lecture continued without pause. "Mutilate? Like the cheetah you skinned for that crude vest you were wearing? Murder the innocent? Like that zebra you slaughtered not ten minutes ago?" Gray brows furrowed as the trap of logical argument began to spring. "Jack Darling was many things, but not the killer of your little chubby 'lover'." Black gloved fingers plucked from the hip pocket a blood-splattered Press Badge, and tossed it in Becker's direction. By reflex, the bounty hunter dropped his stance to catch it from the air in one huge gray paw. The smiling face of Jules beamed up at him from behind a curtain of laminate, blood, and ash. His own little eunuch buddy's badge, last seen still clipped to the reporter's lapel.
A cold gaze, blue and frigid as icebergs, nailed the brown expressive eyes of the bounty hunter when at last he looked up from the little rectangle of plastic. Funny that so small a token could, even if for just a moment, render so large and powerful a male speechless. "You found his body, saw another male, and instead of acting like a rational, thinking, sentient and civilized man you fell into a berserk animal rage. Territory and mating rights had been broken, and you could not control your urge for violence. A simple test of rationality, one you failed, because you are an animal." In a sharp tone, cruel even, hurtful as Truth is rumored to be. As quickly as it turned, it turned again, softer and more pleading as Carl stepped closer now, in arm's reach.
"You are like a fire, Becker. Beautiful, powerful, awe-inspiring....and also capable of mindless destruction. You are not in control of yourself, you are a danger to others and to society as a whole. Please, I beg you, let me help you." Carl even turned his muzzle up into the slightest bit of a smile, both hands with palms up and fingers spread. Non-threatening. "You need a person with WILL to control you, dominate and guide you. Acceptance of your animal self will liberate you from this lie of personhood. You could be happy, be fulfilled, have a purpose and a place but you must let me help you or I am afraid you will kill and maim in self anguish until you die with all your potential wasted. I just want to help you come to terms with your true self."
Against most males, such a speech would have had them on their knees. Carefully worded, masterfully delivered, and cunningly framed with the proper gestures and tone, it was a master stroke. Embroiled in the newly re-opened and amplified psychological trauma of Jules' murder and his own brutal attack on Jack, Becker's willpower faltered in the face of such a bold offer. Could he really be just an animal, enslaved to his impulses for violence and murder? Did he hunt criminals just because it didn't send him to prison? Could the black rhino of his hallucination be his true self, lurking inside just under the skin? How fragile were the mental chains that held that beast back from more murder and skinning?
Sensing the weakness, almost smelling the psyche crumble before the psychological assault, Carl shifted even closer. His hand drifted up, forming into a pincer to pluck the laminate card from Becker's paw. "Come, lay down. Let me help you be the real you." The black latex of his gloves touched the corner of Jule's badge, and the introspective spell that held the huge bounty hunter paralyzed shattered. With a hurried grunt and a sudden twitch of the hips, Becker slammed his paw into Carl's collarbone and gathered up a fistful of smock. Startled, the leopard clapped both hands over the massive wrist pressed against his chest. "Becker!" The felid struggled to keep his voice calm and measured, anxiety bubbling from the subtext. "Let go." His words bristled with command authority, and they went unheeded.
The knife came out of the sheath hanging from the right hip, Jack's drying blood flaking off the serrated blade to replaced by floating ash. "I heard enough of your bullshit. Murderer." The tip of the knife floated upward, and Carl turned his face from it as it inched closer and closer. "I'm sick of your words, this place, and this whole fucking thing. I just want it over. I've had enough." Becker spoke clearly, loudly, but with a flat affect. He sounded weary, and he felt weary, borne down by blood and corpses. The tip of the knife tickled into the fur of Carl's neck, tenderly tapping like a lover's finger in search of the artery.
So engrossed in finding the right spot to slice, and watching the steely stare of those blue eyes, Becker never saw Spot. The hulking pet had simply faded into the background after the engrossing conversation, only to lunge now when its Master was at risk. Weighing in at a similar bulk, and leaping from atop a black rock altar, the pounce was extremely effective. Carl and the knife both tumbled from the rhino's paws as the two muscular bodies collided, all four landing on the unforgiving windswept stone. The knife clattered off and bounced along until it came to rest in the deep crevasse of a broken altar split in twain by lightning. Carl rolled along and skittered away on hands and knees to put distance between himself and Becker. Spot clung to Becker, and the two of them were entangled before they ever kissed the tuff.
Grasping at the rhino with his mighty paws, Spot dove his leather-clad head forward to bury his massive teeth into the ungulate's beefy shoulder. Becker loosed an enraged roar when even his thick skin couldn't protect him from the two inch long daggers of bone firmly wedded to the massive overmuscled jaw. His blood, fresh and hot, sprayed against the black leather of Spot's hood. His fists, huge and dense, slammed into the sides of the creature pinning him. Once, twice, three times his knuckles landed home, fighting thick leather, dense fur, and strong muscle to bruise the organs beneath. The massive pet, enraged by the blows, flexed his neck and bit down all the harder, scraping tooth to bone.
The roar turned to a scream as nerves and tendons were severed by Spot's vicious bite, and in a surge of atavistic desperation Becker convulsed his whole body and threw his head forward. His horn slammed into the side of Spot's muzzle, sliding along the slick leather and smoked eye-lenses hard enough to place a crack in the latter. The force of the blow set his brains to rattling, but the gambit was worth it as the strike loosened the bite! Following through with a one-two combination of body blows, he dislodged the feral beast and rolled from under before another snap of those jaws caught him. Both combatants scrambled to their respective paws, getting the ground beneath them and sky above them. Becker crouched defensively, Spot slinking low and seeking an opening.
Carl's attack was a total surprise, his boots cunningly placed in shallow dips filled with cushioning ash so as to make no sound. His hand grasped several syringes, enough to take down the massive ungulate quickly, swinging them in a powerful strike against that broad, muscled back. The steel bit, and Becker roared, snapping himself up and swinging his arm around. The back of his paw dashed across the smaller male's face, sending him stumbling backwards, the syringes still grasped tightly in Carl's hand. They both saw the needles, bent and shattered, uselessly ruined after failing to puncture through the rhinoceros' thick hide. The sight was enough to put a smug smirk on that horned muzzle, seeing the injections fail, the expression on the leopard's face at the inadequacy of the weapon. The smirk didn't last long at all, for in the distraction of the surprise attack, Spot fixed his jaws on the other forearm savagely.
The strong, thick bones of his radius and ulna were very tough after a lifetime of heavy lifting, but the massive animal's jaw was stronger still! Becker could feel the cracks beginning to form in his bones as Spot bore down harder, teeth grinding and crushing with all the force it seemed that huge leather-bound body could muster. Reflexively, Becker spun around and planted a haymaker blow with his now closed paw across Spot's temple, forcibly ripping free the teeth buried deep in his arm in a spray of blood. The rhinoceros staggered forward with the inertia of the blow and of the beast's disentanglement, forced to find his center of balance again before he simply toppled over.
He had scarcely found his footing before another attack slammed into him. Carl reengaged, this time with several razor sharp scalpels, slamming them home into the massive ungulate's side. The four surgical instruments cut through the thick skin well enough, spiking deep enough to scrape across Becker's ribs. They went no deeper though, the short blades inadequate to puncture much further into his body. Minor, but extremely painful, the new attack send Becker hissing and reeling. The cannonball biceps flexed into a knob of steel as Becker wound up to punch the leopard right in that grim face, when Spot slammed into him from behind.
At almost seven feet talk, comprised entirely of muscle, and with inch thick skin, Becker was a formidable opponent. In a one on one, he would have easily crushed Carl, and eventually won over Spot's nearly equal bulk. Against the both of them, the struggle was harder. Spot did the most damage, biting and tearing with those terrible jaws. When he was fighting off the massive animal, Carl would attack his flanks and back. The syringes failed completely, but the scalpels could cut deep enough to add damage over time. Becker couldn't afford to ignore either of them, and the time it took to punch, kick, or otherwise dislodge one attacker the partner would spring in another assault.
The grim reality of his precarious situation really sunk in the third or forth time a scalpel tickled his bones, and Becker found himself worried. The bites and stabs were wearing down his titanic endurance, and eventually he'd not be able to throw off the doctor or his pet. Then it would be over for him, finally worn down in defeat. He spun around, knocking Carl back once more, and spared a split second glance at the observing tiger up on his throne. The sight of that noble muzzle, the watching eyes, all parts of the great hunter combined to inspire one last push. He had to take them out now, before all his strength was sapped, and so Becker tapped into the last reserves of his energy.
Spot lunged, and Becker rolled with the pounce, using a surge of adrenaline to turn the flying leap into a flying bodyslam. He ignored the teeth snapping a mere inch from his eye, his whole perspective focused on throwing the mass of the feral critter over his hip. Between the two of them, they massed well over a quarter ton of muscle and bone, the whole of the weight being focused on Spot as he was crushed between the volcanic tuff and Becker's weight. The huge rhino lost no time, rolling off the prone, motionless animal and readying for Carl.
The force of the hopped-up bounty hunter kicking sent Carl flying with a wet crunch. He traveled almost ten feet before landing on an altar with another bone-crunching CRACK! He flopped limply across the obsidian surface, his arms askew and hands empty. His head lolled back, directly in the V-shaped split that ran down the center of the lightning struck block. His eyes stared at nothing, both of them unfocused from the skull-cracking fall he had taken. His chest moved weakly, breathing shallowly. Becker moved in for the kill.
The massive rhino loomed over the altar, eying the troublesome male with a healthy dose of caution. From the crevasse, something glimmered up at him, and Becker snatched it. "My baby." He muttered, retrieving his lost knife. Damaged from the loss, but still in one piece. He flipped it around a time or two, wrapping his paw about the grip to form a downward angle. Without a word, Becker raised the knife on high, and gripped it with both paws, ready to drive it down through Carl and into the very rock itself! The knife descended with a fell whistle toward Carl's laboring chest..
Intervention came in the form of a last pounce, as once more Spot hurled himself in the fray for his Master. The knife whiffed past Carl, leaving him unarmed, and swung around as Becker and Spot began their deadly waltz. Biting and blocking, stabbing and deflecting, with tooth and blade they became a dervish in a cloud of kicked up ash. The knife shot forward, and it sank home. No superficial wound, the blade pushed through the massive animal's sternum and into the heart. The serrations locked against the grain of the bone, thus knife and victim became one. A last murder of an innocent, the very last.
Becker let the corpse collapse from him, allowed it to fall backwards and almost lounge across a narrow formation of igneous rock. Those massive arms and gargantuan paws swung without motive force, the muscled chest did not rise or wall. In a way, the primal beauty of so fine a specimen could be appreciated, but to get there........he spared a glance back at the prone Carl, still stretched out across the altar. On his side, but not nearly the danger that the huge beast had been. Blood ran from the leopard's mouth, and the biofilters hung from his nose like dead slugs. Incapacitated and harmless from the injuries, he'd not pose a threat to Becker.
With both his opponents defeated, one dead, the other broken, the rhino found the strength leaving him. Adrenaline had bought vigor and speed on credit, and the tremors that ran through his muscles were the effects of withdrawal. He breathed deep, ignoring the acrid bite of the volcano's hot, dry vapors in his lungs. With a snort, Becker turned back to the still body of Spot, striding over to it with gritted teeth. His paw swatted at imbedded scalpels, leaving behind a trail of bent metal before he crouched by the beast's side. "What are you?" He asked, looking into the smoked lenses that hid the creature's eyes.
"No. S-stay away from him!" Carl had found the strength to rasps, lapsing into a coughing fit and sudden pained groans. Without his filters, the sulfur fumes combined with broken ribs to make his speech and breathing so very difficult. Still, he forced the words out. "Leave him alone." His face contorted in pain, Carl began to edge himself toward the front of the altar with one hand by inches.
Becker pointedly ignored the gasping pleas, and put both his paws on the thick leather hood, seeking the fastening. Finding it in short order, he wasted no time in peeling back the thick layer of hide. "What do you have under here, monster? Some poor dog? A petite bear?" Already the confident banter was coming back to him, bobbing to the surface like a ship that nearly capsized. The hood was tight, like a second skin, but it moved, revealing dark gray fur mottled with black.
The rest made even the jaded former convict recoil slightly, his lip curling into a disgusted sneer. Spot's jaw and lower skull bulged with excess muscle and unnaturally knobby bone, the fur worn smooth to show a series of very precise needle marks of frequent injections. The teeth glistening with blood, too many of them to be natural, and the scars on the gumline gave proof of their implantation. The entirety of the skull it seemed was a cruel parody of overexaggerated masculine and feral features. Becker was disgusted by the sight of such a freakishly mutilated animal, but he drew the hood all the way up, sliding the smoked lenses and earcaps off. The dead, empty gaze of the beast was a little sad, those big blue eyes looking almost mournful. The way the black mottles formed into rings and splotches was sort of endearing as well. One could have some sympathy for the blue-eyed monster, maybe, Becker thought. Then, like a twin pair of unfamiliar suns, an idea both horrifying and alien dawned in his mind. "He couldn't be...."
"My brother." Carl said it flatly, lacking the strength to put much inflection in his words. He had reached the edge of the altar, awkwardly dangling his legs in an attempt to stand despite the agony of his broken bones. "My twin, actually. So identical even our parents couldn't tell us apart." He wheezed, and suppressed a cough to carry on. "But I knew, I saw that I was better, superior. In time, he knew it too. Accepted his inferior state." Being said so plainly, without the trappings of maniacal laughter or posturing just gave the stark horror all the more impact.
Becker physically recoiled from the awful distorted corpse, and only then began to see the full scope of the alterations. Those powerful muscles that had beaten and bitten him, all were warped and strangely stacked on bones overloaded with redundancy. The limbs were so slightly non-symmetrical, the chest off just enough to be unsettling. Everything was wrong, but it had to be to turn Carl's doppelganger into the massive killbeast that lay dead. He noticed all these things, he knew, because he wanted to recoil mentally from the very idea. He couldn't though, those eyes, the facial fur patterns, all the same. "H-how could, this is.." He struggled to find words, drowning in a sea of practically eldritch disgust.
"Oh, a long process." With sheer strength of will, Carl dragged his legs off the altar, letting his feet rest on the tuff. "Castrated at 18, but by then I was controlling his hormones with drugs anyway. A little surgery here, shots there....nothing to the brain though. No shortcuts, just acceptance." He hissed like a steamkettle as he let his weight transfer to his legs, one hand clamping over his broken ribs as he struggled to stand without the support of the rock slab. "Accepted what he was, and after that it was easy and so right. You could have been like him, you know. Happy and useful and self actualized."
It was the flippant way Carl responded that snapped Becker out of the cycle of disgust/sympathy/shock that had him dazed, and put the huge rhino onto a familiar track that demanded action. Righteous anger, full-blown fury at the arrogance and amorality of this well-spoken leopard to do something so heinous to his own flesh and blood! His heart began to speed up, and tremors flowed from his shoulders to his paws, where they turned into fists. He turned square to face the sagging Carl, barely supported by the altar and wheezing pathetically. Becker started speaking a bit softly, recovering from the mental revulsion. "You're a soulless, black-hearted, sadistic and deeply sick monster. Hanging's too good for you! Burning's too good for you! You oughta be torn apart into little bitsy pieces and buried alive!"
He ended with a roar, though, drowning out the thud of his heavy feet pounding the rock as he crossed to Carl. The delicate black-gloves hands rose into the air, and were knocked aside effortlessly by Becker's huge gray paws. He wrapped them both, though one would have sufficed, around Carl's throat and hauled him bodily into the air. The leopard let out a strangled gurgle, and his hands slapped at the slab-like forearm that hauled him one, two feet into the air. His black boots kicked uselessly at Becker's thighs and hips as he dangled, blood running freely now from his nose and mouth. "I guess strangling will have to do, though." Tendons sprang up, bulging from under a layer of blood and ash as the rhino began to squeeze the narrow throat slow, but relentless as a vise. A small, wicked smile played on the ungulate's lips.
Carl wheezed, he gurgled, and he coughed up gobs of blood as those huge paws throttled him. His eyes darted left and right, looking in all directions as blood vessels began to pop in the corners. Slowly, the whites of his eyes began to turn red. His hands flailed, striking at the wrist, the forearm, even reaching for Becker's face. Trapped in gloves, he could not deploy his claws, and without a scalpel he could leave naught but the smallest bruises. His kicking boots did nothing either, striking ineffectually or not at all. Becker bore down even harder, leering.
There was no need to hurry, and the bounty hunter with prey in paw felt no reason to deny a savory strangulation. As Carl's struggles grew weaker, and more desperate, Becker drew the leopard closer, ignoring the weak batting against his chin and cheek. "I'm going to send you to hell." Slap, a blow across the nose almost as soft as a kitten's playtime, which the rhino ignored. He drew Carl closer, speaking lowly, intimately as he stared right into the bloodshot blue eyes. "Where even the devil won't want anything to do with ARGGHHLLLL!!!!" Another lazy arcing slap from Carl, contemptuously ignored, landed in Becker's mouth. The soft, tender surface of his gums and tongue exploded in pain, and reflexively he bit down. Those massive vegetation grinding teeth, flat and strong, slammed down on the glass tubes of several syringes. Now shards of razor sharp glass joined the needles in a bloody orgy of pain.
It's possible that Carl let out a pained scream when he was dropped on his broken ribs, but Becker didn't hear it. He was too busy bellowing wetly as his mouth filled with blood and sharp edges. He retreated from the slumped leopard, reaching up into his own mouth even as he attempted to spit out the largest shards. Several of them, joined by some blood and bits of tongue, sprayed out onto the rocks. A lot of it just went forward, to embed in his lips and gums. It was the intense, sudden pain that made his head swim, or at least Becker thought at first. Then he realized that the only glass things Carl carried were syringes full of drugs. Syringes like the one he saw a weakened Carl draw from a holster, his trembling hand sinking the narrow spike into the base of his own spotted neck.
Becker tried to put one foot in front of the other, to get to the leopard and strangle him before the drugs took hold, but already the tremors were running down his shoulders. The palsy was chilling, making his joints ache as every command he gave himself was distorted and scrambled. While the huge rhinoceros lost coordination and strength, the leopard seemed to gain it. After dropping the needle, Carl pulled himself up to his feet with both hands on the altar, and then stepped away from it! The spike must have been filled with endorphins and stimulants to give him the juice to stand, albeit slightly hunched over and favoring his broken ribs. "You hide wasn't thick everywhere.." Carl paused, catching his breath, before he began to limp toward the drugged rhino. "....as insecure in victory as personhood. I knew you would posture and gloat. Giving me the opportunity."
Becker could not bring himself to mumble a retort through a muzzle full of broken glass, but it seemed his slack jaw wasn't responding to his mental commands anyway. He couldn't even lift his brawny limbs in opposition, they were limp and impotent. As Carl drew closer, Becker's legs finally gave out. Like a redwood, he took a long time to fall down to the volcanic rock, rolling and thudding. He came to rest right next to a shaft of volcanic glass, one twitching arm dangling into the empty gulf that belched yellow smoke. The gritty stone pressed against his skin, rubbed ash into his wounds, and mocked the flaccid paralysis of his muscles with stony fortitude.
Carl staggered closer, and dropped to his knees beside the slab of meat called Becker. Even drugged, injured, and helpless, that body was a sight to behold. Sculpted muscle, good proportions, and of course a dick as big as the leopard's forearm. The nutpouch rivaled Carl's head for size and weight, and rested heavily on the stone between the hunter's wide spread thighs. "You destroyed my life's work. Killed my br...my dreams." The leopard coughed, holding onto his broken chest as he cleared blood from his throat. "Destroyed the apex of my technique." Quietly, slowly, Carl drew out the large surgical hook from its place on its belt. He raised it up, let it catch the red, hellish light in front of Becker's eyes. Let him see the dangerous curve with the blade along the inner edge. "This isn't revenge. I must win, to preserve my goal of helping others."
With a low groan, Carl sat down, mindful of his injuries. With one hand he felt along those massive nuts, pushing them to the bottom of a very slack and low hanging sac. No doubt the incredibly heavy weight of the calf-makers had stretched his scrotum over the years! Carl gathered up the almost delicate gray skin in his fingers, forming a bottleneck near the very root of the huge nutsack, each little tug sending twinges of fear up the stud's spine. Carl was panting from exertion by the time he had that nutpouch choked up enough in his grip. With a soft growl, he moved the surgical hook into place, using it to flip the beercan thick cock out of the way first. The bladed inside edge of the hook kissed along the fine network of capillaries and veins that ran along the outside of the impressive pouch. One of them split open from the razor caress, and hot blood began to pool on the stone below.
"A waste." Carl muttered, before he began to pull and turn. The razor edge pressed up against the soft, delicate skin, and then slid across it. For all his toughness and bravado, Becker's nutbag was a easy to cut as any other. The skin split as if it had a seam, and the blood began to flow in earnest, splattering on the rock and against Becker's inner thighs. It was almost painless, almost, but there wasn't even a scream to be hard. Unable to move, Becker couldn't defend himself, or even lift his arm out of the shaft full of blinding, poisonous smoke that belched around his face like a shroud. Silently, he endured the pain.
The hook trembled, and Carl dragged in a ragged breath as he struggled to control the motion of his wrist. Delicately, the tip of the hook snagged into the wound, and with a small flick pulled out the important cords and vessels like a tangle of Christmas lights. Each thick as his pinky, the vas deferens pulsed with the sheer oversupply of virile, potent seed. Carl flexed his forearm, and sliced through it without a moment's hesitation. The other cords followed suit, and in a space of breaths those tangerine sized balls lay loosely in the draining pouch-skin on the warm stone. Separate for the first time from Beck's gargantuan mass, they began to accumulate ash and grit quickly in the open top.
CLANG went the hook as Carl dropped it down the volcanic shaft. Both hands freed, he scooped up the liberated nutsack like an overloaded bowling ball caddy. One hand with the ragged edges gathered together to form a bag mouth, the other cupping the underside of the still warm scrotal sac. He lifted the heavy load with effort, and drew it into his lap, allowing the heavy warmth to rest on his joined thighs. "Goodbye." He said, flatly, as he braced his good shoulder against the block of stone behind him, and his boots against Becker's side. The leopard flexed, and Becker's shoulder now joined the rest of his arm to dangle in the empty shaft.
Trapped in the prison of his own flesh, Becker could not even scream or beg for mercy as the slender cat pushed him a little further over the edge. If he was lucky, really lucky, Carl might tire out before shifting almost four hundred pounds of full grown rhinoceros. The slick, glassy rock, and the quantity of his own blood leaking from his crotch conspired against him with his tormenter. They helped Carl push a little further, sending Becker's limp head and neck to dangle over the edge, then his shoulders. A single kick sent the other arm to limply flop over the precipice, and Becker's top heavy frame did the rest. Like a sinking ship, he tipped over and just slid into the smooth polished chimney of glass. He could still hit his head, get knocked unconscious or just pass out from all the smoke. Either would have been a mercy.
Already betrayed once by a drug-induced shutdown, Becker sank into despair as his hard-won physique performed all too well. He tumbled down, sliding along the walls and bouncing around curves, striking his head and body painfully. His arm shattered, his ribs snapped, his horn was split in twain, but he didn't black out. The pain came in bolts, amplified by the loss of his other senses, drowning in a fog of yellow smoke that burned his lungs but did not snuff his awareness. When Becker was launched out of the Tower he was completely aware all three hundred yards down, until he made a temporary crater in the molten rock.
At the peak, Carl struggled for breath, fighting his own blood and the fumes for his oxygen. His eyes remained locked on the deep shaft that Becker had been dropped down for at least a minute, as if daring the rhino to reemerge. Finally, he began to stand up slowly and with deliberation. The drugs that had given him strength were wearing off, and the gargantuan rhinoceros scrotum weighed him down. Clutching it tightly to his chest, Carl finally stood, blood and seminal fluid sloshing out of the gray skin to splatter on his smock.
The leopard approached the dais, slowly, but with a grim determination. His face trembled, attempting to hold a noble expression that would match Charn's direct and piercing gaze. Those intelligent, commanding eyes felt like an actual physical force bearing down on Carl's shoulders as he limped to the first step at the base of the throne. The electrostatic air curtain crackled softly and charged whatever fur wasn't splattered with blood or fluids, setting off tiny sparks. Within the purified confines of the dais, Carl breathed much easier with the ionized air which gave him just the boost he needed.
He swallowed the pain, and set his shoulders back, tears welling up in his bloodshot eyes as he forced his broken frame into a proud posture. He climbed up the second step, teeth gritted together hard enough to chip and grind, his ribs all mashed together and splintering. Carl ignored the agony through sheer force of will, and climbed the next step, now within arm's reach of Charn's boots. Close enough to deposit the giant leaking bag of calf-makers right between the elegant leather shoes. Keeping his head proud and high out of deference to his own sense of self-worth, he focused his bloodshot eyes on that striped face. Through the tremors that racked his body, Carl forced out a level tone to address the seated lord. "I am the victor. I am superior. I am worthy of the prize." Carl believed every word of it, and allowed himself to end after such a short statement, buoyed by confidence.
For ten tense heartbeats, there was no response from the tiger. Everyone but Carl seemed frozen in a tableau, the tiger deep in thought, the dapper ferret peering at his blunt claws, the ursine guard featureless in their helmets. Only the tremulous, ragged breathing from Carl's lips cut through the silence. At last Charn rose from his throne and extended his hand, offering it to the leopard. Carl placed his hand in the tiger's welcoming grasp and just like that it was all over. Charn engulfed Carl completely within his darkness, and lifted him away.