by Anthology
It’s a good healthy way to spend a Sunday afternoon, out in the open air at a good game when the Supermen are hot and we’ve got the opposition in the stands outnumbered. Combat’s a great thing to take your kid to too!
I don’t know, all my friends go to the Caballero games, we go together and take a couple of six packs of beer apiece, and get muy boracho and just have some crazy fun, you know? Sometimes I come home a little cut up and my wife is all upset and tries to get me to promise not to go to the Combat games anymore. Sometimes I promise, just to keep her quiet, she can get on my nerves, but I never really mean it.
Hombre, you know how it is, women don’t understand these things like men do. A man has got to go out with his friends and feel like a man sometimes. It’s not too easy to find ways to feel muy macho in this country, amigo. The way it is for us here, you know. It’s not as if we’re hurting anyone we shouldn’t hurt. Who goes out to the Caballero games but a lot of dirty gringos who want to pick on us? So it’s a question of honor, in a way, for us to get as many amigos as we can out to the Caballero games and show those cabrones that we can beat them any time, no matter how drunk we are. In fact, the drunker we are, the better it is, “etu sabes?”
Baby, I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s just a chance to get it all out. It’s a unique trip, that’s all, there’s no other way to get that particular high, that’s why I go to Stompers games. Man, the games don’t mean anything to me as games; games are like games, dig. But the whole Combat scene is its own reality.
You take some stuff—acid is a groovy high but you’re liable to get wasted, lots of speed and some grass or hash is more recommended—when you go in, so that by the time the game starts you’re really loaded. And then man, you just groove behind the violence. There aren’t any cops to bring you down. What chicks are there are there because they dig it. The people you’re enjoying beating up on are getting the same kicks beating up on you, so there’s no guilt hang-up to get between you and the total experience of violence.
Like I say, it’s a unique trip. A pure violence high without any hang-ups. It makes me feel good and purged and kind of together just to walk out of that stadium after a Combat football trip and know I survived; the danger is groovy too. Baby, if you can dig it, Combat can be a genuine mystical experience.
Hogs Win It All,
21-17, 1578(23)-989(14)!
Anaheim, October 8. It was a slam-bang finish to the National Combat Football League Pennant Race, the kind of game Combat fans dream about. The Golden Supermen and the Hog Choppers in a dead-even tie for first place playing each other in the last game of the season, winner take all, before nearly 60,000 fans. It was a beautiful sunny 90-degree Southern California day as the Hogs kicked off to the Supermen before a crowd that seemed evenly divided between Hog Lovers who had motorcycled in all week from all over California and Supermen Fans whose biggest bastion is here in Orange County.
The Supermen scored first blood midway through the first period when quarterback Bill Johnson tossed a little screen pass to his right end, Seth West, on the Hog 23, and West slugged his way through five Hog tacklers, one of whom sustained a mild concussion, to go in for the touchdown. Rudolfs conversion made it 7-0, and the Supermen Fans in the stands responded to the action on the field by making a major sortie into the Hog Lover section at midfield, taking out about 20 Hog Lovers, including a fatality.
The Hog fans responded almost immediately by launching an offensive of their own in the bleacher seats, but didn’t do much better than hold their own. The Hogs and the Supermen pushed each other up and down the field for the rest of the period without a score, while the Supermen Fans seemed to be getting the better of the Hog Lovers, especially in the midfield sections of the grandstand, where at least 120 Hog Lovers were put out of action.
The Supermen scored a field goal early in the second period to make the score 10-0, but more significantly, the Hog Lovers seemed to be dogging it, contenting themselves with driving back continual Supermen Fan sorties, while launching almost no attacks of their own.
The Hogs finally pushed in over the goal line in the final minutes of the first half on a long pass from quarterback Spike Horrible to his flanker Greasy Ed Lee to make the score 10-7 as the half ended. But things were not nearly as close as the field score looked, as the Hog Lovers in the stands were really taking their lumps from the Supermen Fans who had bruised them to the extent of nearly 500 take outs including 5 fatalities, as against only about 300 casualties and 3 fatalities chalked up by the Hog fans.
During the half time intermission, the Hog Lovers could be seen marshaling themselves nervously, passing around beer, pot and pills, while the Supermen Fans confidently passed the time entertaining themselves with patriotic songs.
The Supermen scored again halfway through the third period, on a handoff from Johnson to his big fullback Tex McGhee on the Hog 41. McGhee slugged his way through the left side of the line with his patented windmill attack, and burst out into the Hog secondary swinging and kicking. There was no stopping the Texas Tornado, though half the Hog defense tried, and McGhee went 41 yards for the touchdown, leaving three Hogs unconscious and three more with minor injuries in his wake. The kick was good, and the Supermen seemed on their way to walking away with the championship, with the score 17-7, and the momentum, in the stands and on the field, going all their way.
But in the closing moments of the third period, Johnson threw a long one downfield intended for his left end, Dick Whitfield. Whitfield got his fingers on the football at the Hog 30, but Hardly Davidson, the Hog cornerback, was right on him, belted him in the head from behind as he touched the ball, and then managed to catch the football himself before either it or Whitfield had hit the ground. Davidson got back to midfield before three Supermen tacklers took him out of the rest of the game with a closed eye and a concussion.
All at once, as time ran out in the third period, the 10-point Supermen lead didn’t seem so big at all as the Hogs advanced to a first down on the Supermen 35 and the Hog Lovers in the stands beat back Supermen Fan attacks on several fronts, inflicting very heavy losses.
Spike Horrible threw a five-yarder to Greasy Ed Lee on the first play of the final period, then a long one into the end zone intended for his left end, Kid Filth, which the Kid dropped as Gordon Jones and John Lawrence slugged him from both sides as soon as he became fair game.
It looked like a sure pass play on third and five, but Horrible surprised everyone by fading back into a draw and handing the ball off to Loser Ludowicki, his fullback, who plowed around right end like a heavy tank, simply crushing and smashing through tacklers with his body and fists, picked up two key blocks on the 20 and 17, knocked Don Bamfield onto the casualty list with a tremendous haymaker on the 7, and went in for the score.
The Hog Lovers in the stands went Hog-wild. Even before the successful conversion by Knuckleface Bonner made it 1714, they began blitzing the Supermen Fans on all fronts, letting out everything they had seemed to be holding back during the first three quarters. At least 100 Supermen Fans were taken out in the next three minutes, including two quick fatalities, while the Hog Lovers lost no more than a score of their number.
As the Hog Lovers continued to punish the Supermen Fans, the Hogs kicked off to the Supermen, and stopped them after two first downs, getting the ball back on their own 24. After marching to the Supermen 31 on a sustained and bloody ground drive, the Hogs lost the ball again when Greasy Ed Lee was rabbit-punched into a fumble.
But the Hog fans still sensed the inevitable and pressed their attack during the next two Supermen series of downs, and began to push the Supermen Fans toward the bottom of the grandstand.
Buoyed by the success of their fans, the Hogs on the field recovered the ball on their own 29 with less than two minutes to play when Chain Mail Dixon belted Tex McGhee into a fumble and out of the game.
The Hogs crunched their way upfield yard by yard, punch by punch, against a suddenly shaky Supermen opposition,
and all at once, the whole season came down to one play: With the score 17-14 and 20 seconds left on the clock, time enough for one or possibly two more plays, the Hogs had the ball third and four on the 18-yard line of the Golden Supermen.
Spike Horrible took the snap as the Hog Lovers in the stands launched a final all-out offensive against the Supermen Fans, who by now had been pushed to a last stand against the grandstand railings at fieldside. Horrible took about ten quick steps back as if to pass, and then suddenly ran head down fist flailing at the center of the Supermen line with the football tucked under his arm.
Suddenly Greasy Ed Lee and Loser Ludowicki raced ahead of their quarterback, hitting the line and staggering the tacklers a split second before Horrible arrived, throwing them just off balance enough for Horrible to punch his way through with three quick rights, two of them k.o. punches. Virtually the entire Hog team roared through the hole after him, body-blocking, and elbowing, and crushing tacklers to the ground. Horrible punched out three more tacklers as the Hog Lovers pushed the first contingent of fleeing Supermen Fans out onto the field, and went in for the game and championship-winning touchdown with two seconds left on the clock.
When the dust had cleared, not only had the Hog Choppers beaten the Golden Supermen 21-17, but the Hog Lovers had driven the Golden Supermen Fans from their favorite stadium, and had racked up a commanding advantage in the casualty statistics, 1,578 casualties and 23 fatalities inflicted, as against only 989 and 14.
It was a great day for the Hog Lovers and a great day in the history of our National Pastime.
The Voice of Sweet Reason
Go to a Combat football game? Really, do you think I want to risk being injured or possibly killed? Of course I realize that Combat is a practical social mechanism for preserving law and order, and to be frank, I find the spectacle rather stimulating. I watch Combat often, almost every Sunday.
On television, of course. After all, everyone who is anyone in this country knows very well that there are basically two kinds of people in the United States: people who go out to Combat games and people for whom Combat is strictly a television spectator sport.
The Phoenix races against time and death toward . . .
THE ULTIMATE END
By DICK GLASS
Dick Glass is a young man who works very hard in a library to support his efforts to write and interpret the world today. I think he is justified in his labors and it is a pleasure to print his first story here.
The Phoenix races against time and death toward . . .
. . . to save the city from certain destruction at the hands of a mad genius!
CHAPTER TWELVE:
Flaming Justice!
THE PARK. The sun-filled children’s haven. The park. A man had endured unspeakable agony to breathe those two words before he died. The park. No poetry-reading professors on its rolling green hills today. The park. This day the key to carnage. This day it would be touched by a Salamander whose hand would engulf the entire city in flaming destruction. Dresden would be a mere spark in comparison!
The flame-red roadster carrying the Phoenix roared through the cool, concrete canyons. The throaty throb of its mighty engine struck the stony heights, shook the windows as if to warn the innocent people inside, then fell screaming in the vacuum left behind by its passage.
David Cawber laughed at the little people blurring past his windshield. Poor puny, helpless fools! Let them give Rita the credit for tipping off the police last night. Let them think Rita van Beelan, crime-busting woman newscaster, helped to round up the Salamander’s horde before they could ransom the city with their all-consuming fires. Let them believe it was the girl’s bravery that had lead the police and National Guard to the condemned theater-in-the-round.
The deluded, gullible children!
For all they knew the Salamander had been killed during the raid. For all they knew the Salamander had been “Fingers” John Homer, the shady bail-bondsman who had his thumb in many an illegal pie. For all they knew his right-hand man, Mitchell, would be pulled in momentarily along with the other four gunmen who had escaped last night.
The Phoenix knew better!
Mitchell had been tipped to the raid moments before the police burst through the doors. He and his kill-crazy men had edged toward the side of the stage. From the orchestra pit Mitchell had gunned down the man garbed in the Salamander’s orange and yellow asbestos suit. It hadn’t been a stray police bullet!
The Phoenix had followed with his gun drawn. He had been quick enough to escape the police net, but not quick enough to keep up with the slippery killers. It did not matter. The Phoenix knew the Salamander’s secret!
The Salamander was alive! The Phoenix had learned the full truth only ten minutes before. A narrow smile flickered across Cawber’s lips as he remembered the Crime Commission’s telecast less than a half hour before.
David Cawber had stood in the shadows behind the bright lights watching Rita van Beelan give her testimony. Cawber was unimportant, he was only the playboy munitions tycoon who escorted the crusading Miss van Beelan. But as the Phoenix he knew that only a member of the Commission could have warned Mitchell of the raid so soon after Rita had called in the location of the Salamander’s lair. One of the members of the august Crime Commission was the Salamander!
From behind their large, parabolic desk, the seven-member Crime Commission had focused on Rita van Beelan as the cameras had focused on them. When the beautiful, young news woman had finished and had stepped down, the cameras had moved in for close-ups. As the cameras had leap-frogged left to right, tight on each trusted face, each member of the Commission had spoken his mind.
Harve Morgenstem had shifted his Neanderthal bulk and had promised, as Chief of Police, that Mitchell would be hunted down and rounded up within twenty-four hours.
Hurd Filurmann, the deceptively rotund Fire Chief, had stated that his department could now handle any threat to the city with the insane horde of pyromaniacs behind bars or in the morgue.
Lomas Misty, the suave, pencil-moustached District Attorney, had promised that the Salamander’s legions would be dealt with speedily and fully under the law. The dapper D. A. had then shot a glance at Rita who was standing in the shadows next to Cawber. The young prosecuter knew the girl’s heart belonged to the Phoenix whose justice was not only swifter and surer, but more final as well.
Commissioner Nassen had run his thin fingers through his silver mane. A look of fatherly concern had crossed his dignified face. He had said he was relieved that the current wave of pain and death was finally past. He had spoken of a time in the future, soon he prayed, when the emergency commission could be disbanded, for justice would then fill the streets of the city.
Ambitious Scott Bramley, the represnetative from the Governor’s office, had disagreed with the Commissioner. He had not only wanted to continue with the Commission’s activities, but he had also wanted to tie them closer to the State House.
Major General Richard O. Eastland, who had come in from Second Army Headquarters to oversee the military aspects of the campaign against the Salamander, had said he was personally glad to turn the matter back to the local National Guard and to get back to the real war.
Lieutenant Colonel James Danvers of the local National Guard had taken the opportunity to rescind the curfew put on the city by the military and to deactivate all but a clean-up company.
In the shadows opposite Rita and Cawber, Mace Hurdley, the quiet Commission stenographer, had taken down each word and had gathered together his notes as Commissioner Nassen returned the situation to its normal programming.
As the Klieg lights had cooled, Cawber had taken the package Rita had been carrying and had slipped off to a dark alcove. He had opened the package with swift fingers. He had changed his tie and shirt. He had slipped on his shoulder holster with its .357 Magnum contents and had tested its draw. He had drawn his fiery, beaked mask over his handsome features. He had donned the red-violet, wide-brimmed fedora and the lo
ng, matching cloak which drove fear into the hearts of the underworld.
It had been time for the Phoenix to pay a call on Commissioner Nassen!
Seconds later, the dark avenger had been poised on the ledge outside Nassen’s office. The Phoenix’s keen mind had sensed something amiss at the thick drapes being drawn over the half-opened window. Magically, the Phoenix’s gun had appeared ready in his fist as he had heard . . .
“The city will by my pyre, Commissioner, but you will not see it! You know my destination so you must feel the touch of the Salamander! Mitchell!”
The purple phantom had burst through the window into the office just as a soul-searing scream had torn the air. Commissioner Nassen had been smothered in flame!
The gun had barked in the Phoenix‘s fist, but the Salamander and Mitchell had already cleared the door as the slugs had slammed into the wall behind them.
The Phoenix had quickly torn down the thick drapes and had wrapped them around the Commissioner’s flaming body. Heedless of his own danger, Cawber had put out the flames seconds later, but he had little hope that Nassen would live.
As Cawber had cradled his still smoldering head, the Commissioner reached up a charred hand to pull the Phoenix‘s ear closer. Enough life had still clung to the great man’s black, burned husk for him to have whispered two words.
“The park . . .”
With that, the once noble man had sighed and had turned his melted, sightless eyes toward the ceiling. He would feel no more pain.
Then the Phoenix had burned with righteous vengeance. Then the Phoenix had vowed that Commissioner Nassen had not died in vain!
