One fiction piece by Willie Smith

RINGSIDE
by Willie Smith

The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were pitted against Black Widow Man. Superchick roosted in the mezzanine crunching popcorn; Wonder Bitch beside her knitting an afghan into the Middle East. High up in the stands sat Satan, grating his teeth, nose jammed in a library copy of Milton; attempting to ignore both the fight and his disgust with American foreign policy.

The Tooth Fairy flitted about in Tinkerbell drag – accurate down to the ping in her wand. The Easter Bunny looked like always – a hatless naked Goofy knockoff; although he had come in a lilac satin vest, doffed before hopping into the ring.

The Widow Man rippled abdominals, causing the hourglass to glow ochre. “Time to die!” he sneered. Snared with a leg the Tinker wannabe. Reeled her in toward a slobbery fang.

Somewhere out there in a billionth of the electronic audience, Praying Mantis Girl got wet. Crept a digit crotchward. Rose from her couch. Knee-hobbled to within a foot of the screen.

Up behind the Widow Man the Bunny hopped. Rabbit-punched the radioactive arachnoid. “Tinker” broke free. Zapped the monster blind. Whirling in a frenzy, the blood-orange W on his sable cape overturned into an M, the Widow accidentally fanged the cottontail; injected venom up a vein to the heart.

Stone dead dropped Bunny. The Fairy – enraged with grief – vowed no quarter. Dipped her stick deep inside the atrabilious mouth-hole. Lasered spider organs into fugues of random canon blast. Withdrew the wand only when the beast – fifty times her size – began to regain sight; agonizing into focus the windfall.

The spider pounced; enveloped eight hateful legs around the corpse. Glared at the Fairy hovered above, “Now we have the leisure, do tell what all love conquers?”

Superchick crammed her mouth with lipsticked popcorn. Cuddled against the earth-mother shoulder of Wonder Bitch. Seated on the Chick of Steel’s other side, Bat Pussy emitted a sadistic purr.

“Tink” consulted the micro-Rolodex on her elfin wrist. Worried she was spending too much time too close to the plutonium-laced Widow. Through compound eyes – teary still from the zapping – the Widow misinterpreted the glance as prelude to another attack; some lewd weapon that would come out of nowhere. Crash the orgy with technology cut at science’s wildest edge.

Off the corpse into a corner he sprang. For all his brag, the Widow desired at this juncture – this particular rip in spaced-out time – no more surprises.

Praying Mantis Girl – inside the cocoon of her efficiency – knelt before a cheap TV – longed to belong to some dweeb, such as perhaps the offspring of “Tink” and the Widow; albeit she not sure what she really needed, kneading claws together, lusting from the womb of her unnatural nature.

Up at the Pole, Santa and the elves were taking a break from slaving over the toys. They worked 24/7’s – especially now it was after Thanksgiving, dark all day anyway; nothing better to do than screw together dolls and submachineguns. But the Saturday Night Fight was written into the contract. Although no contract existed. Either you did what Boss Santa kindly suggested or got stepped on; sometimes booted out into the ice.

The boys were, naturally, rooting for the Fairy and the Bunny. Catcalls had greeted the spider’s below-the-belt fanging of the sweet-toothed hare. Whereas not even Santa had objected to the backbrain punch; the one that spared “Tink” the venom.

The Bunny began to budge. At first just a whisker twitched. Then one eye, the left eye (right squashed against the canvas) behind its lid fluttered like a blue tick dreaming rabbit. Next his front paws joined over his fuzzy chest in a gesture of prayer.

Prepositions pounded his position. The Bunny fell in a blur to wondering who were we. Felt our wheels whir behind the lid; the right stigmatized on the mat black.

The Bunny (or whatever the thing inside the floppy suit) floated up into the lights blue with cigar smoke. The women tinkled. Hung Boy – some bleacher spazz – yelled, “God Bless America – land of the cracker and the Boss!”

“Tinker”orbited six feet above. Sprayed the corpse with pixie dust.

Nothing happened, till the body lay sugar-coated from head to paw; when, from inside, at heart level, a hand appeared. Unzipped the bunny chrysalis.

Out stepped Zarathustra Man. Unfolded moist wings. Swept up to join the Fairy in an aerial motion to foreclose on the Widow. Furiously the duo dunned warthog style.

The Widow scurried out into the center of the ring screaming, “I am the orgasm gibber, the jizz jazz, the come scat!”

The Fairy and Zara cut her to pieces – gattlings ablaze, rockets glaring. Eugenix Boy – resurrected maggotlike from the ear of the dead bunny – put in a ground attack.

Leg bits, guts, tomato-hourglass-spatter littered the deck. A disembodied fang launched into the crowd hit and exploded a stevedore’s panatella; shrapnel singed the goatee off a lesbian contractor; but neither noticed, elbow-to-elbow surfing the bloodlust tsunami; pedipalps, ganglia, eye shards glittered on the ropes.

Helplessly slavering, Praying Mantis Girl bent over and ate herself. Bat Pussy, closer to the actual spectacle, licked her chops, watching Eugenix mop up. Wonder Bitch gazed up from her afghan. Satan passed gas; dropped Milton through a grate; bit his own tail; invaded Syria.

Superchick splurted corn at Bleacher Spazz: “Lightning hang! Hail bounce! Rain duplicity! May the Emperor suicide a myriad times in a mirror of clear solution!”

The elves went ape. Cheered their pointed little socks off. The Grinch had disintegrated – super show!

Santa smiled. Nodded. Thought to himself, “Bread and circuses.” Patted both hands to his paunch; translated for his own benefit, “Panem et circenses.” Reached up to the shelf above the south wall work bench. Snapped off the set.

Some crazy old bat, sporting a soupstrainer moustache – forty-three degrees below the Pole – as the people filed out – swept the pieces up off the mat. He knew he had created this mayhem. But somehow managed to sew such knowledge along the hem of his backbrain.

Were God not now dead, God would have gladly explained.

Author bio:

Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. His novel OEDIPUS CADET is available at Amazon.com.