Bright pink lights bathed the square wrestling ring in neon glow, the four posts threaded with thick red elastic ropes. In one corner, the esteemed Lion Tamer, Sir Leon Valentine, was cloaked in his flashy red overcoat, its hem trailing in an unseen wind along with his fussy blond mane. From above, a flutter of rose petals drifted down all around him, as if he were anointed by the heavens. At his sash was his ancestral thorn whip, thirty feet in length, bound in a coil awaiting his tight, masterful grip. He smirked, turning and regarding his opposition, a pair of masked luchadores in distastefully tight leather thongs and thigh-high boots. How no one had ever looked at this ensemble with a critical eye and concluded that the typical wrestler looked more like a gimp than a warrior was beyond Leon. Trashy fetish gear was beneath him. Flashing a perfect smile, he flipped a strand of hair over his ear, a proud expression over his feminine face.
“Come.” he beckoned.
Screaming their war cries, the gimp duo charged. Wild, lashing limbs tangled and clotheslines were ducked under, Leon jumping upon the ropes and flipping over their heads. Joint locks failed as he wiggled free and reversed momentum, colliding one opponent into another. Feigning a fall onto his back, he rolled away with a chuckle as one of the masks tried to drop his ass onto his face from above. Leon took to his knee and smirked as the man struck his tailbone and hissed. From above, the shadow of his trusty sidekick, the enormous lion Sparta, grew. The mask looked up and grit his teeth, horrified, as the lion belly-flopped onto him.
Leon jumped onto his feet again and regarded the other luchador. The man in gimp fatigues recoiled a bit, the color draining out of his face, then widened his stance and spread his arms out wide, adopting a primal gorilla pose. He rushed at Leon, but the graceful circus acrobat practically slid under and past him. Unfurling his rose whip, he spun, and the air split in a resounding crack as the flexible rosine saber struck the man’s exposed back. Skin from upper right shoulder to bottom left hip split wide open, spilling a gout of blood mist. The man howled and clutched at his back, dropping to the ground and writhing.
The dramatic lights powered down, and the generic lights flicked on. The stage was set in the middle of an empty arena, the booths cleared out of any attendants, the only viewers in place being ringside at personal desks and chairs. A promoter hissed through his teeth.
“Ouch.” he said.
A jittery man in a suit, tearing at his brown hair, cried out. “Goddammit Valentine! You went off script again!”
“Take five, everyone.” the promoter waved.
A pair of paramedics carted off the whipped brother, and another coaxed the reluctant Sparta off of the other, before carting him off as well. Leon sashed his whip again and leaned against the ropes casually, looking bored and mildly pissy.
“Where do you get these guys? How do you expect me to put up a real fight against third rate muscleheads?” Leon tutted.
“Grr!” his manager seethed. “It’s pro wrestling, it’s not supposed to be a real fight, and you damn well know that! This wasn’t the contract, circus boy!”
Leon was smoothing out his hair as a custodian entered the ring and began sweeping it clear of the congregated rose petals.
“Please, for the love of god, just do the matches like we rehearsed them!” the manager whined.
Leon hopped down from the ring and poked his handler in the chest. “That just won’t do. I don’t know how you run your entertainment business, but among my family, we abide by the iron law of the enamored audience. It’s our sacred duty as entertainers to put on the most dazzling show possible for the downtrodden everyman, and lift them up out of the crappiness of their mundane little 9-5 lives! I agreed to fight to put smiles on the paying audience’s faces!”
“But the fights aren’t real, dumbass!” the manager argued, poking back.
“Nonsense.” Leon scoffed. “Just because these violent stage plays have scripts doesn’t mean the fights aren’t real. We must make a spectacular, beautiful duel for the precious audience. It can’t just look real, it has to be real. Every move is a work of art that comes together in a brilliant tapestry of controlled chaos, just like a dance across the trapeze! Go get me replacements.”
The promoter threw down his clipboard. “Don’t be such an unreasonable prima donna, Valentine!”
Leon looked away, folding his arms and pouting.
“Why you-” the manager flexed his hands, wanting nothing more than to strangle the pretty boy.
Sparta was suddenly behind him, sitting on his ass, growling. The manager flinched and backed off.
“At ease, Sparta.” Leon pat the lion’s head.
The promoter took a few deep breaths. “Look, Leon, work with me here! This is showbiz, all you have to do is look like your dashing, noble self while you flourish around a bit, and the audience will eat it up! Please just follow the script.”
Leon shrugged. “A script is more like a pamphlet of suggestions.”
“Wh- NO IT’S NOT!” the manager exploded.
Leon began walking off, a subtle, sassy hip sway to his movements.
“You want my best? Give me your best. Get someone who can give me a real fight.” Leon beckoned Sparta, and the both of them stormed out, leaving the manager gawking.
-
Leon sent Sparta on ahead in the limo, customized with a pen for him, loaded with shrimp cocktail and sparkling waters. The destination they shared was the monolithic casino hotel at the center of Station Bay’s bustling entertainment district, alight with flashing neon signs, the reception area marbled with glossy tiles and boasting a grand fountain display to welcome the establishment’s treasured guests. The penthouse suite Leon had checked himself into ahead of schedule had one of the jets go out on the hot tub, much to his chagrin. What did a superstar have to do to get some quality service around these parts? Heading back now was just going to get him worked up. The elevator of one would take Sparta up to the lounge to hang out for a bit, and Leon would take a ride on the city to cool off getting a good look at the night life outside the hotel. The spa should be fixed by then. Though lacking polish, this venue still seemed promising enough to signal the rest of the Valentine family to come join him. Carnival Top was in need of new faces, and it was time this state was pulled out of its cold, cruel, Leonless world. Conveniently enough, the circus floor and wrestling ring were a stone’s throw away from each other, so Leon could go from performance to performance, basking in the starlight of his craft.
But first he had to go back and get his goddamn motorcycle keys. He came into the training gym to find his keys on the table at the foot of the far wall, where a whiteboard was hung. On it, in dry erase marker, was his manager’s resignation, along with a slew of creative curses. Leon tutted again.
“Fine, you dullard, I’ll handle it myself.” he shrugged.
He grabbed his keys, then headed out to the parking garage. It was dark and echoey in the stone jungle of empty parking spaces and support columns. Anyone of significance had already closed up shop and headed home for the night. He made it to his glorious, fiery red bike, and lovingly patted its cushy seat.
“I missed you too, sweetheart.” Leon cooed down at his steed. “Don’t tell Sparta, or he’ll get jealous.” Leon chuckled to himself. It echoed.
Just as Leon sat astride the hog, he heard heavy footsteps. He looked up, lowering his helmet, and saw a broad, tall figure between columns. They were built like a fucking bigfoot, with arms thick and solid as oak, and a neck so corded and muscled that it was practically indiscernable from the shoulders. More strikingly, however, as the figure stomped into the flickering overhead light toward Leon, he saw that their choice of attire rivaled his own in terms of flamboyant extravagance. They were in some kind of hot pink shirt with a lime green overcoat, the sleeves ending in fiesta tassels, his feet filling out heavy, iron-toed boots panted red. Something like a mini poncho, aqua marine, was draped across his chest and back, and a mask or helmet of some kind totally engulfed their head, brimming with more of those high-energy tassels. It had the look of an alpaca’s face, but with a compressed snout, the eye area crossbred with an armored knight’s visor. A huge, plumed hat like a pink cloth sombrero fanned out from the top of the helmet, as if the guy were a great big palm tree on steroids.
Leon whistled, startlingly loud in this place. “How long did it take your mom to knit that for you, buddy?”
The figure said nothing, only standing there.
Menacingly.
Leon frowned. “Sorry pal, but the next tryouts aren’t till after the weekend. You missed your nacho libre buddies by a few hours.”
A gravelly voice echoed out from the alpaca head. “I’m not here for your performance art. My boss wants a word with you.”
Leon smirked. “Him and everyone else. He’ll want my autograph, I’m sure. But I’m off the clock right now, so maybe you could move your wide ass out of my way and come back when I’m in a better mood?”
“It’s not going to work like that, Valentine. I need you to come with me.” the man said.
Leon slowly and deliberately got off his motorcycle, throwing up the kickstand again and depositing his helmet on the handlebars. A hand fell to his whip.
“What you need is to leave.” he glared at the macho man in the mask.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
The man chuckled and crossed his arms. It was at this point that the lights caught the glint of bright green plastic straps slung over the man’s shoulders. A huge backpack straddled the man’s hunched frame, bulging with a great many spherical somethings that made it look incredibly heavy. The man unzipped it and sank a meaty hand into its depths, retrieving something that made little knocking sounds within.
“Guess you want to do this the hard way. Good. I was bored.” the man said, taking a huge, smooth rock out of the bag and tossing it up and down in his palm. Its weight thudded against his leathery palm with each catch.
Leon cracked out his knuckles and stretched his legs, then gave a fox smile. “Me too.” he said, unhooking his whip and gesturing to the brute - come on.
The masked man inclined his head forward a bit, then his arm flashed, swinging full rotation in an overhead pitch. The perfectly smooth round stone blurred toward Leon’s perfect face, and he nodded to the left. He felt the rock whiz past him, the air current parting his golden locks, and heard a resounding crack. Turning his head over his shoulder, he saw that the lump of mineral pain had fucking embedded itself in the concrete pillar. He looked back at the masked man and raised his eyebrows.
The masked man had two more rocks, one in each hand. They weren’t there for long. Leon wove past the first, then spun and unfurled his whip, lashing the next rock and subtly redirecting its course. The length of limber thorns lashed across the man’s face, shredding and tearing tassels free, leaving a line of silver beneath. Leon completed his turn and leaped to the brute, flourishing his whip, gripped in the handle and halfway up its length, in alternating, controlled circles that slid unnoticed off of the man’s bulky shoulders, leaving nary a scratch. Leon ducked and twisted under an erratic flurry of clumsy but powerful hook punches. The big guy had no technique, merely throwing his limbs out there, but the sheer weight behind each punch made this viable, a trainwreck of a fighting style only a giant like this guy could put to good use. Leon spun onto his back leg and threw out a sidekick, planting it in the man’s rock hard abdomen. The brute barely reacted, instead dropping an elbow on top of Leon’s upturned ankle. Leon grunted as his ankle bruised, dropping his foot, and managed to fumble under the followup punch. A second blow, however - an uppercut - planted itself in Leon’s stomach, lifting him six feet off the ground and knocking him breathless. He clutched his dented stomach, whip wrapped partially around his arm, and saw darkness engulf his vision as the huge man closed his hand around Leon’s face.
Roaring like a beast, the big guy chucked Leon by the face across the room. The circus prodigy’s back, and the back of his head, struck against the solid concrete pillar, splitting the back of his scalp. He was dazed, vision graying out, legs rubber, only forcing his vision back into focus a split second in time to throw himself out of the way as the brute charged him like a quarterback. That pauldron-like shoulder sledged into the pillar, cracking it. The man turned toward Leon again, his masked face turning last, as if for dramatic effect.
Leon waggled a finger at the brute.
The masked man mirrored Leon’s earlier gesture, beckoning him forward with his fingers - come on.
Leon glared.
How dare!
The man rushed Leon, and the acrobat ducked under his tree limb arm, whirling and lashing his whip across the man’s back. It raked open the thick layers of material, drawing a shallow line of blood across the man’s back. Leon saw with satisfaction that the brute grasped at the wound. Not wasting a breath, Leon retracted his whip and wound it completely around his safety-gloved hand, making a thorned fist. He pushed off the ground full-bore and swung an overhead punch right into the man’s stupid alpaca snout. His knuckles busted and his wrist almost broke, a hollow twang sounding as his punch did nil to hurt the man. That helmet looked like a party decoration, but it was evidently made of iron underneath the colorful confetti. Leon clutched his hand, hyperventilating, face purple.
A sadistic chuckle echoed inside the helmet as the man grabbed Leon by the lapels, reared back, and slammed his armored head into Leon’s face. The Lion Tamer’s forehead cracked and stained with blood, the wrestler reeling back drunkenly. In the very next moment, the brute planted a heel kick in Leon’s sternum, cracking it along with his ribs. Leon stumbled back, not sure whether to nurse his skull or his torso, and saw the man swung toward him with his backpack whirling as an improvised flail.
It’s full of nothing but fucking rocks, isn’t it? Leon groaned inwardly.
Yes, it was. Three hundred pounds of them, to be specific.
Leon threw up his forearms in a guard position, and they cracked as the impact of the rock-filled sack sent him through the air again. This time, he went with the flow and flipped backward a few times, sticking the landing on his feet like a cat. A battered cat.
The brute was sprinting toward Leon again, spinning with the backpack flung out, so that the centrifugal force kept him going like a gaudy tornado of pain. Leon sidestepped the whirling dervish and lashed out his whip, shredding the back of the brute’s hand and the side of his wrist, and the struck nerves spasmed, sending the heavy bag careening out of the bastard’s grip. The bag of pain went flying right over the concrete rail of the parking garage tier they dueled in, and Leon heard it crush the roof of a car a few seconds later, punctuating the night with the angry alarm.
Hope that poor bastard has insurance. Leon grimaced.
The man kept lumbering forward, throwing an uppercut Leon’s way. He sidestepped the man and lashed his whip forward, gashing a hairy armpit open wide. The huge lummax howled in exquisite pain. Leon dashed back and struck another lash across thigh meat, opening another beautiful fountain of red. He raced forward and pressed his legs together as he corkscrewed, landing on the muzzle of the man’s mask and shoving him backward with a dropkick. Leon flipped back onto his feet out of the dive, landing in a deep crouch. The brute had stumbled backward, but didn’t fall. Leon didn’t have enough weight. He clicked, aggravated.
The brute dashed forward and punched, crumpling the door of one of the few remaining parked cars when Leon leapt away. He kicked in the side of the man’s knee, popping a ligament. The brute grunted, clutching his knee. Leon took advantage, jumping and driving the man’s head through the driver side window, backflipping off of the bastard like a great big, muscly springboard.
The brute shook off the glass, clapped the sides of his helmet as if snapping himself out of a daze, and whirled on Leon, bellowing and charging like an enraged bull. Leon entered a kickboxing stance, whip wrapped around his lead hand, but was bowled into as if by a rolling tidal wave. The big guy boxed in the sides of Leon’s head, the clap partially blocked by Leon’s bruised forearms trying to maintain a waning guard position, and the dizzied acrobat ate a brutal knee in the gut that doubled him over, making him dry heave. His guard fell, along with spittle and upwelled bile. The brute took a firm step, planting his heavy boot on Leon’s feet to pin him in place, then wound his arm five times.
“I’ll break you like a pinata! Drop dead!” - he slammed an uppercut into Leon’s jaw.
The acrobat flew up, head rocked back so hard it almost snapped his neck, and landed in a crumpled heap on his back, painting the cold stone floor with a spreading pool of blood.
The brute lumbered toward Leon, cracking out his neck. The boss said dead or alive - it made no difference to the enforcer. A heavy boot raised its shadow over Leon’s chest.
Leon remembered the number of mishaps that had transpired before across his flashy career - failing safety nets, missed catches, exotic beasts that didn’t feel particularly cooperative that day. The one bouncing around his concussed mind at the moment though was of an early stretch of his foray into pro wrestling, when one of the scripted opponents had forgotten the routine. Part and parcel to the willing suspension of disbelief that was key fab, most of the sport’s more impressive looking signature moves were selected for spectacle over practicality. Choke slams, frankensteiners, piledrivers - one thing they all shared in common was that they were damn near impossible to pull off against an actual struggling opponent. Aside from a few basic suplexes formally recognized in actual competitive wrestling and mixed martial arts, most so-called wrestling throws relied on a cooperative opponent assisting in the lift. Assist throws, these were called, impossible to use in a fight on your own.
Unless you were Leon fucking Valentine. The dumbass he was matched against for his live debut had fumbled the assist during the critical moment - the grand finale in which Leon was to perform a powerbomb onto the hapless heel. This, to the uninitiated, amounted to folding the opponent over and grabbing them around the waist, heaving up straight so that they were lifted over the performer’s head, then tremendously slamming them, backfirst, into the mat from the performer’s overhead height.
That had been one of his more memorable lawsuits. Wasn’t his fault the dumbass couldn’t hack it. Maybe if he’d hit his mark and helped with the throw, Leon’s brakes wouldn’t have failed.
A dumb smile crossed Leon’s face as he caressed his whip, still laying prone.
The show must always go on.
The foot came down, and Leon rolled out of the way, springing back to his feet. The boot left a fucking dent in the stone. The hulk of a brawler who had been so sure he was about to cave Leon’s chest in threw his arms wide and growled at the circus prodigy.
“Slippery bastard!” he roared.
The man in the helmet charged at Leon again. This time, the acrobat vaulted over the asshole’s clumsy gorilla hug attempt, unfurling his whip full-mast as he flipped through the air. His heel came down on the length of the whip, redirecting the lash down across the man’s back again, splitting another line of skin that crisscrossed with the first gash Leon had gifted him. This one felt like it cut through muscle. The brute certainly screamed like it had.
Leon landed softly and flourished, puffing his chest out proudly, popping a few buttons on his cotton undershirt. He lashed his whip in a showy crack, as if sounding the alarm that the gloves were coming off this time. The brute wouldn’t get the chance to do a thing. A kaleidoscope of pink zigzagged across the hulk, dozens of lashes a second, generating gale force winds like a localized hurricane of thorns. Flesh was shredded, death by a thousand cuts style, and a nipple split diagonally. Pig squeals echoed out from the walking mountain of muscle at the epicenter of Leon’s wrath. Leon yanked his whip back around his hand, spun toward the agonized brute and planted a reverse elbow in the center of the bastard’s throat. A satisfying choking nose gurgled as the big guy’s windpipe dented, and Leon recentered himself.
He regarded the canvas he painted in blood with overflowing artistic pride. Then, swelling his thigh with all the focused muscle he could summon, he planted the top of his leg like a sledgehammer into the big guy’s crotch. The nut-buster kick lifted the big guy off his feet. Leon vaulted over his head and poised both elbows over the crown. It was sure nice of the big guy to cushion that hard metal head with a big soft hat for Leon’s elbow points. They sank into the dome, rattling the berserker’s head inside his helmet and forcing him down onto his knees.
Leon grabbed the lummox around the waist, sucked in a deep breath, and power-lifted, hoisting the three hundred plus pound gorilla of a would-be abductor over his head.
Not theatrical enough! Leon thought.
With a prolonged lion roar and fire burning in his flexing core, Leon crouched, still carrying the lummox overhead, and jumped into the air with him, kicking off of the top of a concrete wall.
Then he slammed the brute back down, planting the heifer in the ground with a gruesome crunch that echoed throughout the parking garage. Leon doubled over, panting.
“Damn. Threw my back out again.” he hissed, rubbing the small of his back.
Before him, the lacerated merc was laid out cold, legs folded unflatteringly up and over his stomach where he had been put.
Leon rotated his shoulder cuff and sashed his whip again.
Kokumo said something about shady guys casing fighting venues and kidnapping heavy hitters, didn’t she? It was the subject of some ongoing investigation, very hush hush aside from the fact that the ditz had blabbed about it to Leon. It better have been important, since the little minx had seen fit to walk out on the matchup Leon had lovingly scheduled for them, yearning for another good throwdown ever since last year’s tournament. He just couldn’t go back to his out-of-step punching bag gimps anymore.
This had been the first good workout he’d had in three months. Too bad it hadn’t been under better circumstances.
Leon put on his helmet, kicked up his motorcycle’s kickstand, and revved up the engine. As he rolled out, he tossed a red rose over the unconscious assailant’s chest.
A tasteful final fuck you, beffiting an elegant performer such as the one and only Leon Valentine.