Ghost Bully

by Brian Corley

  The crowd erupted with their approval.

  “Woof. This next lad, quite a brutal chap. All the way from jolly ol’ England.” He milked the crowd. “A not-so-jolly heap of former humanity. You know him. You fear him. No qualities to endear him—Monster Nigel Monhollon!”

  The crowd responded with tremendous enthusiasm as the embodiment of every warty, troll-like monster entered the arena. A muscles-on-muscles, hulking behemoth emerged, his eyes fully focused on me. No regard for the spirits in the stands, he seemed happy to have the opportunity to fight and was eager to get his hands on me. Masephson motioned for him to float up to talk, but he merely acknowledged his presence then focused back on me. Masephson floated down for a prefight interview.

  “Now, Nigel,” he started, “you came to us almost two hundred years or so after some grizzly business with your shop, isn’t that right …”

  Cat emerged next to me as Masephson continued a very one-sided interview. “That was creative, if not anticlimactic,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  “Come on, it wasn’t that bad. What’s the story with this guy?” I asked.

  “He obviously augmented his appearance—although somewhat unintentionally, I think, over time,” she replied. “I am surprised Masephson recruited him for this. It will be an excellent test of your ability to adapt your fighting style. He is cruel, loves to fight, and will want to inflict as much damage as possible from the outset. Don’t let him get hold of you.”

  “Any weaknesses?”

  “Yes, he’s even dumber than he looks.”

  “OK, anything else?”

  “If you get the chance, you may want to play to the crowd on this one. It may benefit you to have them on your side down the road.”

  The crowd grew restless, and Masephson wrapped things up with Nigel.

  “Riveting stuff, Nigel. Nigel Monhollon, everyone.” He shot back up to the middle-middle of the arena.

  “Mr. Preston, are you ready?”

  I nodded.

  “Mr. Monhollon, are you ready?”

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Khepri, is your pit ready?”

  Khepri raised his staff above his nodding head, and the crowd went ballistic.

  “Let the fight begin!”

  Nigel shot toward me with his arms out, ready to grapple. I had a couple choices in front of me—I could fight him heads-up, mano a mano, or I could take a page from my previous opponent. As I watched the massive Nigel Monhollon loom larger and larger as he closed the distance between us, I chose to adopt the latter fighting style.

  I blinked behind Nigel, produced an absurdly large hammer, and bashed him over the head with barely a result. I blinked up higher and out of reach and threw the hammer into the stands, letting it dissolve before hitting anyone.

  Nigel looked up at me in consternation. Apparently, he wasn’t able to play a vertical game. I mentally salivated at the options and started dropping down ghostly firecrackers to annoy him. The crowd loved it—Nigel, not so much.

  After a few, he decided to stand still and started taking the tiny explosions in a show of strength. Naturally, I took the opportunity to drop a comically large, cube-shaped black weight on top of him with “1 Ton” hand-painted on its side in white.

  It took a few seconds, but Nigel emerged from underneath it, picked it up, and threw it at me. I should have dodged rather than watched, and ended up crushed between it and the ceiling, narrowly missing a limestone stalactite in the process.

  Dazed, I fell back to the floor of the arena alongside the weight. Nigel was on me at once with a grip I could not escape. I couldn’t blink out. I couldn’t move. He held me facedown to the floor with a heavy boot on my back, then grabbed me by the wrists and pulled. I could feel my arms beginning to separate.

  Inspiration struck, and I elongated my arms like two cords released. Nigel went flying back with the slack and wound up ass over tea kettle about a hundred feet away. Unfortunately for me, he still had a firm grip on both of my wrists.

  The stadium filled with laughter and a couple jeers as I shot up across the arena in the opposite direction of Nigel until I stretched the limit of my elongated limbs, and looked back and down at the grinning maw of Nigel Monhollon.

  “Aww, all stretched out little guy?” he asked.

  The thought occurred to me that maybe rubber bands had not yet been invented while Nigel was alive, so he must not have ever fallen prey to a friend or sibling tricking him into grabbing for one while they fought him for it only to let it go to sting the hell out of his hand.

  Unfortunate, that, as I was now one giant rubber band pulled to its absolute limits. I turned my potential energy into kinetic and screamed back toward Nigel, pulling in my arms as I closed the space between us.

  He was driven back and down into the ground as my feet connected satisfyingly with his face. He released my arms, and I was free—free to tumble gracelessly across the floor of the arena. Laughter erupted from the stands as I stood dusting off my pants. I’d figure it out one of these days.

  Nigel’s feet stuck out of the ground, and I remembered the pain from the altercation in my front yard, the burning of the dirt and rock. Apparently, I was much nimbler than my foe. His feet were moving, but he wasn’t making any headway extricating himself from the floor of the stadium.

  Masephson hovered over him to see if he could continue, but the crowd started to turn. Sensing their waning interest, his face erupted in a broad smile, and he spoke into his cane microphone.

  “Looks like we have a knockout!”

  The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and laughter as Masephson mugged for the audience. “Better luck next time, Nigel, and congratulations, Jonah, on another hard-fought victory. How ’bout this guy, folks?”

  Some sparse cheers sprung from the audience along with a smattering of applause. More clean-up demons appeared to try to pry Nigel from the gravel floor. I couldn’t imagine a punishment fit for an abomination like that. Maybe customer service.

  “Release Ramona Rodriguez, please!” Masephson said.

  A reptilian demon kicked open the bottom of the cage and left Ramona floating next to George as the guards ascended through a trap door in the ceiling.

  “Congratulations, you two, feel free to take a seat wherever you’d like. Make them feel welcome!”

  They floated over to where I retreated at the far side of the arena. Cat was back at my side.

  “Now for the twist, I think,” she muttered close to my ear.

  Ignoring Cat for the moment, I addressed George and Ramona, “You two alright?”

  They nodded in sync.

  “Thank you, Jonah,” George said. “Good job out there.”

  “What happened? When did they take you?” I asked when they got close enough.

  “As soon as you left with her.” Ramona glared at Cat.

  I turned to Cat, “You said they would be safe.”

  “They were. The outcome would have been the same. I’ve told you. I tried to help. It was all I could offer in this scenario.”

  “That’s bullshit, Cat, and you know it.”

  “Jonah, I’m sorry. I’m trying to help.”

  “Fine, tell me how to get out of here,” I said, hoping I could spark some sort of sympathy from the demon.

  “I told you—join me. You and your friends. We need you, Jonah,” she said.

  And there it was—they needed me. I wasn’t getting out of this situation. Why shouldn’t I just make the best of it and join a team that needed me, where I could make a difference and potentially save millions more people in the process if we won at the end?

  Chapter 36

  Because in the process I would be helping literal and figurative monsters.

  “Still a no, Cat,” I said.

  Masephson rose to the middle-middle of the
arena again and addressed the crowd, “Is everyone having a good time tonight?” He reared his head back and spun in midair as he basked in the response from the crowd. “Good! We have one more match for you tonight, folks. I think you’re going to just love it. A fight between two rivals—a killer and a thriller!”

  He leaned back to an impossible proportion as he basked in the roar of the crowd, then he shot down to Khepri for an impromptu interview.

  “Mr. Khepri, tonight has just not been your night, has it?” Masephson asked before pulling an exaggerated frown for the crowd. The crowd showered down boos with a few spirits standing up to give the double thumbs-down as is appropriate on these occasions as well as professional wrestling.

  Khepri spoke, “It has been an unsatisfying night, Masephson. I demand you deliver what you promised me.”

  The crowd went wild with excitement, demanding grist for Khepri’s mill. Masephson smiled wide and calmed the

  crowd down.

  “Calm down now, everyone, calm,” Masephson said. “Mr. Khepri, you shall have what was promised. You shall have it.”

  He floated back up to the middle-middle of the arena and shouted into his microphone-topped cane, “This bout shall satisfy a score and promote a leader to the fore. Tonight’s winner shall command this area’s army as my general, while the loser shall be Khepri’s for a total of one generation.

  “One generation bound up as food and shelter for his skittering horde of beetles. Mr. Khepri, does this satisfy you?”

  Khepri raised his staff above his head, and the crowd responded with a thunderous chorus of cheers and applause.

  Cat grabbed my arm and leaned in with urgency. “Jonah, I can stop this if you join me. Please.”

  I shook my head no. “I’ll figure a way out of this. There’s no way I’m fighting for either one of you.”

  Masephson boomed, “We’ve marveled at the ingenuity, strength, and stamina of Mr. Preston tonight with one more round to demonstrate his mettle. Have you enjoyed him, folks?”

  The crowd actually cheered, so I gave a sheepish wave.

  “Good luck to you, Jonah!” He held for an applause break.

  “His opponent tonight, another hometown boy, one that pulls no punches. Ruthless, methodical, smart as a whip! No doubt some of you have seen him train. You’ve seen him fight. Entering the ring with a respectable record of thirty-four and one—MIS-TER—WILL-ARD—HEEEEEENSCH!”

  If there were a decibel reader in the stadium, it would have barely registered as Willard Hensch shot into the arena. The crowd was not on his side. He flew straight toward Masephson to grab control of his cane-handled microphone. Masephson allowed it, but feigned shock and surprise.

  Willard immediately began speaking with no flair for the dramatic. He wasn’t playing to the crowd, but it was clearly a moment he’d been waiting for.

  “I’ve been waiting for this, Jonah,” he declared, pointing a finger at me. “For weeks I endured you and your infantile friend as you chattered on incessantly, defacing my home, and treating me with a complete lack of respect. For months, I’ve witnessed people walking around Austin with my face on their shirts in various sorts of compromising positions. I’ve endured the humiliation as I’ve seen my visage on posters and screen savers—made a laughing stock—a mockery.

  “Tonight, not only will I vanquish you, I will give you ample time to think about your impudence and dwell on your defeat. Tonight, Jonah Preston, we bring our conflict to an end.”

  Willard handed Masephson back his cane, and he received it with a sickening grin.

  “Well said, Mr. Hensch, well said!” he boomed through the mic. “Mr. Preston, anything you would like to say in response?”

  I blinked into one of Max’s Willard meme T-shirts. The crowd seemed to enjoy it.

  “Nicely played, Jonah, nicely played. A man of few words,” he responded. “Are you ready, Mr. Hensch?”

  Willard’s eyebrows knitted together, his face in a sneer. He nodded his head yes.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Preston?”

  I nodded my head yes.

  “Then begin!”

  I floated up cautiously to meet Willard. I got the sense that he may have been holding back the last time we met. Why else would he be so eager to come at me now? We began to circle each other. When I got within twenty feet of him, we were each looking for an opening. Willard shot toward me, and I blinked out of the way and behind him, delivering a blow to the back of his head.

  He adapted quickly and blinked away as he responded in kind. Smarting from the hit, I teleported to a far corner of the arena to regroup, but he was right behind me, relentless. I blinked around, in seemingly random patterns around the stadium, with Willard fast behind me, until something wrapped around me and dragged me to the floor of the arena. It took me a moment to realize that I was entangled in a weighted net.

  The crowd erupted in cheers as Willard pounced, raining down blow after blow while I was disoriented. I managed to blink my way out of the netting and up toward the ceiling of the stadium, looking down on Willard. His head was on a swivel, and he shrieked as he zeroed in on my location.

  “Coward!” he shouted. “Face me!”

  Willard’s eyes burned, and his face twisted with rage. He shot up toward me, swinging wildly and missed, cursing something undiscernible as he flew by. His anger was short-circuiting his ability to think through a strategy to win.

  We circled each other as Willard feinted, then dove for me, connecting with a foot to the side of my head that drove me down toward the ground. He followed fast in pursuit, and I countered with an uppercut that sent him reeling toward Masephson and the stands.

  Masephson caught Willard and steadied him while whispering something into his ear. Willard sunk down into the stands without breaking eye contact with me then disappeared into the crowd. I scanned the area, trying to distinguish his face from the many others with no luck.

  I felt a solid crack along the back of my head and plummeted to the floor. I’d not felt anything like that before and was completely disoriented. My head pulsed in throbs of pain, and it felt as though my muscles had been replaced by soggy sponges—even though I obviously didn’t have muscles as a spirit.

  I got another crack to my back as I stood and another to my chest, throwing me back onto the floor of the arena. My incorporeal body screamed in pain, and it took everything I had to push the pain aside and focus on the moment.

  I blinked to the upper reaches of the stadium and Willard followed. I blinked above the stands on the opposite side, and he was upon me in moments.

  I blinked to the floor, back high, over and around the arena, with Willard in close pursuit. I looked for an opening and tried to get behind him, but he moved just as fast.

  He blinked to a position in the middle of the stadium and stirred up the crowd.

  They roared with approval.

  I blinked behind him, and unfortunately, it was just

  what he wanted. He outmaneuvered me, and I felt a blow

  to the back of my head and dropped to the floor of the arena.

  It was as though I had a nervous system again and

  could feel each individual nerve ending cry out in agony.

  But my nervous system wasn’t enough for the torment—it wanted more. It felt like it created more nerves outside my body to grow the pain. It was almost unbearable. How was

  he doing this?

  I had to focus or he would have me, and so would Khepri.

  I watched Willard descend toward me with victory written across his face, a familiar implement in his hand. He circled me as he brandished a peach sword.

  “How is that fair?” I asked.

  “Fair? Do you see any carousels around here?” he responded. He smirked as he raised his sword in the air and started playing to the crowd.

  Years of watching professional wre
stling taught me this was a big mistake, and I had an idea.

  I blinked up to what basically looked like a full-frontal body hug with Willard. I imagined teleporting to the far side of the arena with just him, leaving the sword behind.

  It worked.

  Willard’s face went wild with surprise as we watched the sword fall to the ground and almost simultaneously blinked to the exact spot where it landed. Our hands reached the sword at the same time, grasping it in different places, his on the blade, mine on the hilt.

  We wrestled each other for control, then Willard tackled me, taking a page from my earlier strategy and teleporting us across the arena. Just like before, we blinked back at almost the exact same time; however, this time I was able to get there a fraction of a second earlier. I snatched the sword and swung before he could blink out of range. My nerves still crackled with electric pain, and I could feel the power in the weapon.

  Willard flew hard to the gravelly floor, and I pinned him to the ground with the tip of the sword just like Quinton had done at the house.

  The crowd erupted and rose above their seats for a better view of the impending finale. Willard looked up at me with wide, searching eyes, eyes that welled with tears—tears of frustration, tears of rage, tears that retold the story of a misunderstood kid under constant siege from the world around him. A kid that never felt in his element unless he was alone. A kid that had no one. A kid that grew into a man that continued to face the same struggles—the spirit beneath me.

  I reached down, gripped his arm, and blinked over to the corner where George and Ramona stood watching.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” I panted as I held him down. “We both still have an option out.”

  “What are you talking about?” he whimpered. “Just take your victory and leave me to my fate.”

  “We can both take our doors,” I offered. “Conscripted to lead Masephson’s army is almost as bad as becoming a human beetle farm for me. I’m going to try to open mine here. If yours won’t show, just come with me.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would you help me, after all that I’ve done?”