a lot of H.P. Lovecraft lately...I was thinking about conjuring a giant Cthulhu, just for fun.”
I wasn’t sure if Kenneth was joking. Creating an enormous, scale-covered hybrid of a dragon with a squid for a face might not be the best way to win over the crowd, but it would certainly be memorable. And create some unique photo-ops. Before I could suggest a more subtle display of his abilities the host stepped out from behind the curtain and strutted on-stage, ready to start the proceedings.
My new friend made Arena Mode sound like a whimsical adventure; an opportunity to dress up, run amok on a giant island, and live out a real-life role playing game. For him it was like stepping into a fantasy. Why roll twenty-sided dice, pretending to swing swords and cast enchantments when you can do it for real? It was a naive and dangerous way to view this competition – and if the first person to step out on stage didn’t change his perspective, nothing would.
I recognized the host instantly. Strutting around on stage was Daniel Tate, an English talk show personality, notorious for his quick wit and scathing sarcasm. The scrawny blond Brit was dressed in black, with the exception of his jacket – an oversized red, blue and white abomination, plastered with the Union Jack.
Tate skipped his typical opening monologue and introduced the first competitor, reading from a stack of cue cards that he yanked from his inside pocket. “First on stage is a young girl from Rome: ‘Serafina the Butcher’. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?” The big screen behind him illuminated with her name, vital statistics and a graphic of a waving Italian flag. He pointed towards the curtains with an exaggerated motion. A tall, thin girl with long raven hair emerged, casually holding a meat cleaver at her side. Her ash-white complexion appeared even lighter in contrast with her black dress, and her cold expression sent chills throughout the hushed stadium.
Tate looked her up and down, taking note of her sickly pallor. “For an Italian you look even paler than I do. When was the last time you went to the beach, love?” He held the microphone in front of her, but she passed by without even offering a sidelong glance, ignoring the verbal jab.
Making her way towards the front of the stage, two athletic commission appointees directed her to the oversized metal plate that was attached to an electronic scale. She stepped forward and was registered at one-hundred and eighteen pounds.
Tate followed her and clumsily flipped through his cards, searching for additional information. “It says here that you discovered your powers while working at your family’s butcher shop, when you accidentally burned three customers. I have to say, that’s some rubbish customer service! How did you manage that?”
Staring into the audience she extended her hand, slowly dragging the razor-sharp cleaver across her palm. The blade opened a gruesome laceration, but to everyone’s surprise it didn’t bleed – it poured acid. A stream of searing black liquid hissed from her skin, dripping through the scale at her feet. The metal smoked as the acid continued to melt the platform, opening a sizable hole in the stage beneath.
Without a word, Serafina turned on her heel and strode off-stage, brushing past the awe-struck host.
“Well, well,” Tate said with a small shrug. “Not the chattiest, is she? So, let’s keep things moving, shall we ...”
“Do you know her story?” Kenneth asked, leaning towards me. Before I could answer, he excitedly filled me in on the details. “She’s an aspiring model who was working part-time at her parent’s butcher shop, until one day she slips and cuts herself with a knife. She panicked when she saw the black acid coming from her cut, and started waving her arm around. She sprayed a bunch of people waiting in line, and rumor is that one of them was disfigured pretty badly. Then she had a mental breakdown or something.”
“How
I wasn’t sure if Kenneth was joking. Creating an enormous, scale-covered hybrid of a dragon with a squid for a face might not be the best way to win over the crowd, but it would certainly be memorable. And create some unique photo-ops. Before I could suggest a more subtle display of his abilities the host stepped out from behind the curtain and strutted on-stage, ready to start the proceedings.
My new friend made Arena Mode sound like a whimsical adventure; an opportunity to dress up, run amok on a giant island, and live out a real-life role playing game. For him it was like stepping into a fantasy. Why roll twenty-sided dice, pretending to swing swords and cast enchantments when you can do it for real? It was a naive and dangerous way to view this competition – and if the first person to step out on stage didn’t change his perspective, nothing would.
I recognized the host instantly. Strutting around on stage was Daniel Tate, an English talk show personality, notorious for his quick wit and scathing sarcasm. The scrawny blond Brit was dressed in black, with the exception of his jacket – an oversized red, blue and white abomination, plastered with the Union Jack.
Tate skipped his typical opening monologue and introduced the first competitor, reading from a stack of cue cards that he yanked from his inside pocket. “First on stage is a young girl from Rome: ‘Serafina the Butcher’. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?” The big screen behind him illuminated with her name, vital statistics and a graphic of a waving Italian flag. He pointed towards the curtains with an exaggerated motion. A tall, thin girl with long raven hair emerged, casually holding a meat cleaver at her side. Her ash-white complexion appeared even lighter in contrast with her black dress, and her cold expression sent chills throughout the hushed stadium.
Tate looked her up and down, taking note of her sickly pallor. “For an Italian you look even paler than I do. When was the last time you went to the beach, love?” He held the microphone in front of her, but she passed by without even offering a sidelong glance, ignoring the verbal jab.
Making her way towards the front of the stage, two athletic commission appointees directed her to the oversized metal plate that was attached to an electronic scale. She stepped forward and was registered at one-hundred and eighteen pounds.
Tate followed her and clumsily flipped through his cards, searching for additional information. “It says here that you discovered your powers while working at your family’s butcher shop, when you accidentally burned three customers. I have to say, that’s some rubbish customer service! How did you manage that?”
Staring into the audience she extended her hand, slowly dragging the razor-sharp cleaver across her palm. The blade opened a gruesome laceration, but to everyone’s surprise it didn’t bleed – it poured acid. A stream of searing black liquid hissed from her skin, dripping through the scale at her feet. The metal smoked as the acid continued to melt the platform, opening a sizable hole in the stage beneath.
Without a word, Serafina turned on her heel and strode off-stage, brushing past the awe-struck host.
“Well, well,” Tate said with a small shrug. “Not the chattiest, is she? So, let’s keep things moving, shall we ...”
“Do you know her story?” Kenneth asked, leaning towards me. Before I could answer, he excitedly filled me in on the details. “She’s an aspiring model who was working part-time at her parent’s butcher shop, until one day she slips and cuts herself with a knife. She panicked when she saw the black acid coming from her cut, and started waving her arm around. She sprayed a bunch of people waiting in line, and rumor is that one of them was disfigured pretty badly. Then she had a mental breakdown or something.”
“How
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