by James Tow
Gabriel a spot,” Chris said and the others started leaving the tent.
“What about me?” Alyse asked. “I figured you’d just sit in Paul’s lap or something,” he said and a stick flew from behind me—hitting him in the head. “Damn woman!” he yelled rubbing his head.
“Say something else!” she said with another stick in her hand. Chris ran out of the tent before Alyse could do anymore damage.
“It’s not funny! They think I’m some kind of freak,” she pouted. I walked over to her.
“You’re my little freak,” I said smiling. She sat up and grabbed the front of my shirt—tugging me to the ground on top of her. She wrapped her legs around me and started kissing my neck—but suddenly stopped.
“You kids,” said a muffled voice from behind me. I turned to see Gabriel limping toward us with his scarf still over his face. I tried to look for the source of his limp—blood through his khaki cargo pants, scuff marks, something.
“How’d you do?” I asked—Alyse and me getting to our feet. “Pretty good. My wounds weren’t as healed as I thought,” he said—taking off his vest and putting on a black shirt over his black tank top. He started limping out of the tent.
“How many points?”
“50,” he humbly said.
What the hell?!
The main tent was only a couple hundred of yards away. Loud celebrations could be heard echoing out from inside.
“He has a point,” Alyse said when I was done telling them both of Hunter Watson and his advice.
“Yeah, but I don’t know how it could work. Just go up to people and say, ‘Hi! I’m Paul Reed! Join me!’” I said in an obnoxious tone.
“Any way you say it, you will gain followers. I guarantee it,” Alyse said.
I looked at Gabriel, but he remained silent. He never has anything to say on the matter. The three of us walked up to the entrance of the massive tent. Two large metal poles were stuck in the ground on both sides of the entrance—they both had two pennant flags on the top blowing with the nighttime breeze.
Inside the tent were three rows of long tables and benches that sat facing a wooden stage at the forefront. To our immediate left, at the entrance, was a bar—they were serving beverages to the eager guests surrounding the area. The tables were full with the people who occupied the smaller tents throughout the area.
The rowdy atmosphere made it hard to hear.
“Do you see them?!” I called out to Alyse.
“No!” she replied back.
Gabriel started walking down the aisle in between the left and middle rows of tables. He just pointed—directly in the middle of the left row stood Chris waving his arms for us to see. We followed Gabriel to the empty spaces on the edge of the table. We sat down, facing the stage—Gabriel sat on the edge, Alyse next to Chris, and I took my spot next to Gabriel.
“There are so many people here!” Toni said—who sat in front of me. Keith, sitting on the edge, was staring at the bar.
“Thirsty?” Alyse asked him. He nodded his head.
“While you’re up there, you should grab me a pint…please,” She asked in a voice that you couldn’t refuse. Keith got up with a smile, and headed toward the bar. I looked down the table to notice most of the crew already had their share of brew—half full mugs sat scattered down the table in front of them.
“What time is it?” Gabriel asked. I turned to Alyse and she said, “8:53.”
Sitting on the edge of a table in the middle row, with his back to the stage, was Hunter. He, along with other members of his crew, sat staring at Gabriel and me.
I nudged Gabriel with my elbow.
“Hunter,” I said motioning my head toward the table. Gabriel just stared as they nodded and waved in our direction.
“I don’t think they’re the only ones who know,” Gabriel said examining the area. I did the same to see several sets of eyes staring in our directions.
“They could just be impressed with our performances today,” I suggested. Gabriel looked at me and shook his head.
“This is bad,” he said. “We need the cover if we plan to take out Pollick.”
Keith returned with four mugs in his hands. He slid one to Alyse, then one to Gabriel and me. We looked at the mugs then at Keith, confused.
“From the old creep at the bar,” he told us. We turned to look at the old man wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket with ‘Freedom Fighters’ emblazoned in yellow on his back standing at the bar. He turned to us, as he took a drink from a mug of his own—his thick mustache, that ran down under his chin, was dripping with beer. He held up his mug in the air, and we did the same.
We turned back to our table, and Alyse looked as us—concerned. I shrugged.
“Maybe he’s just a nice guy.” Her face lit up, and she got from her seat and ran to the far right of the room—several men staring as she passed them. At the front of the room, to the far right, stood her parents—waving and greeting her as she jumped on both of them.
The men continued to stare at her butt as she hugged her parents—which irritated me to no end. I got up from my seat and headed her way. I could hear Gabriel laughing as I passed him.
“Mr. Paul R…” Jack Hound started to say when I approached. Alyse elbowed his ribs and he corrected himself, “Patton, I see you’ve taken good care of my daughter. For that, I owe you.”
“Trouble seems to follow her, but I try my best,” I tell him. She comes to my side, leaning her body against mine and grabbing my hand.
“So it’s like that?” Anna said with exultance. Alyse just smiled. Jack, playfully, punched my shoulder and laughed.
“Are you competing?” I then asked him.
“We tried,” Anna scoffed.
“Yeah, but apparently we’re not that good,” Jack finished and glanced back at the disgruntled crew of St. Andrews. “Which is a shame—we’ve been here for the past several days or so, just waiting for these games to start.”
“Here comes Pollard,” a voice from behind me said—I turned to see an old man, standing at the entrance of the tent.
“Pollard?” I asked myself.
“He’s the mastermind behind these games,” Jack told me.
“Well then…got to go,” I told them. I shook both of their hands, “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Jack said.
“I’m going to stay here with them, for now,” Alyse said and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“Alright,” I said and turned to jog back to my table.
The old man made his way to the stage, and the ruckus quickly died. The only sound that remained was that of the several generators outside. He slowly stepped up the small set of stairs on the right side of the stage.
“Looks like he’s going to fall over and die,” Chris said.
The old man stopped in the middle of the stage—he wore the same blue jeans and white shirt as the other workers. He brought the microphone he held to his mouth.
“Test, test, test,” he croaked. His voice echoed throughout the crammed tent. He brought the clipboard he held in his other hand, to his face. He dropped it to his side.
“Good evening,” he said. “I would like to thank all of those who came out to participate—it was an event filled day that I was excited to host. For the most part, the competition was close—but there were a few teams who completely dominated the field.”
Once he said this, a couple of teams gave each other high fives.
“Obnoxious bastards,” Gabriel grunted.
“Let them have their fun,” I said patting his shoulder. “They deserve it.”
The old man continued, “Yes, yes—you know who you are. But let’s get on with the announcing of the winners and our finalists…” Two men, coming from the right set of stairs, brought a dry-erase board to center stage. The two men ran off the stage, to the left, and a young woman walked up from the right. The guys whistled and howled as she walked across the stage.
“Hey baby!” a bunch of the drunk men yelled.
“Ok, that was obnoxious,” I said and Gabriel shook his head.
Already drawn on the wide board was a tournament bracket. It started from the left—there were eight empty lines where the names of the factions went—and ended to the right, where the victor’s name went. The woman started filling out the bottom line, next to the number ‘8’, and we all read it once she finished: Army of Apocalypse. Grunts, moans, and an uneasy shifting occurred within the audience.
The old man talked through the set-up and the woman pointed it out as he went along—like some cheesy game show.
“The team with the most points will occupy the first slot,” the old man said and the woman pointed at the top slot—the slot that had a big ‘1’ next to it.
“I wonder if she figured out where to point all by herself,” Gabriel said.
“The team in second will compete against The Army,” he announced and the woman pointed to the second to last slot—the one with the big ‘2.’
“This is irritating,” Gabriel grunted.
“Calm down,” I tell him.
“Whoever is second is lucky—they get first shot against The Army,” I heard Toni tell Chris.
“Or unfortunate,” Chris says.
“The third place team will go against the first,” he said and the woman pointed to the slot under the first.
A man—of about thirty years of age—stood up in the front of the left row. “We know who fights who! Tell us who made it passed preliminaries so we can get wasted!” he yelled while holding up his beer. The crowd cheered with agreement.
“I would have to agree,” Gabriel said.
I looked over to Alyse, and the perverted men around her—she was deep
