Glad He Hate All ~Gladiator~

     "Arghhhh"

     Gullible greaves slackened as he reached for the javelin across his shoulders. But the opponent was faster. His eyes were like the prime of the hay; basked in ire and fixed demeanor. His lips cloven, chewing inaudible spells as a wanky warthog bruise the salient soil with haughty hoofs as it skipped. The intensity of the malady inveilglng the nook and cranny of the agora was to see the cramped cod fall by the sword of that worn warthog. Wild whooshes of the wielded winds complemented the rhythmic jive haste hum into the hampered hollow of his callous consciousness. The charge met a shield, and worn warthog would try again.

    The cod at that moment was ready for all twould take him. The refrain his mental horizon kept scribbling on the platter of his acumen was Fight or die!!! He knew it was not some optical illusion. He could feel its pangs reaching at the cleavages of his agility. His worries had been chopped. He'd give it all twould demand of him. He was no longer skeptical. At the moment, he knew that retreating wasn't an option; had never been an option for him. Why then would he enthrone it as an incumbent on his thought when he could recruit other feelings as rage, pain and zeal. He smothered the thoughts and fostered a push.

     Again the warthog charged, more determinedly. One thing is to have the courage to do something. To push or bruise yourself to having a result regarding a task. But when such urge is being complemented by the thousand voices borne by the wet wings of the whooshing winds. Echoes teasing the pillars of the agora which converges the spectators. Wouldn't you be gay? Wouldn't you give all it would ever take? Wouldn't you die at it and snap at all opportunity? Same mercy caught up with the worn six cubits and a span man willing to have the cod's head in his hand at the feeblest moment. 

     The call wrapped airy atmosphere and made pawn of it to nocturnal Nymphs feasting on the odds of the convocation. Primitive, barbaric and seasoned voices complemented themselves in the wail of this man:

      "Cyclops! Cyclops! Cyclops!"

      In no sense was he in a league with Cyclops; he was the tallest of all the Gladiators he'd ever seen. But felon fate had had his taunting take and had leased him a loan he'd never thought he'd be able to repay. His errors had paged such fate and had him cramped. His sin was the grievous of what no Gladiator had ever tried with their master:

      It had been cold a day ago, and sharing warmth with the bare floor, none could comfort the other. The apt azure had been unfair, and had lodged callous clouds that were choked by mood swing and began to weep at the call of the whooshing winds. Very cold it had been. He couldn't take it anymore. He'd left his cubicle for the next and had seen a robe by itself on tiger-leather-skinned stool. He'd picked it up and girded himself in it. He'd return to his lanky lover - salient sleep. Upon the next day, he'd woken up to clusters of his mates eating him up with voluptuous ogles. He couldn't make meaning of their stances until the master made for his way from amongst them to him. 

       "Get ready to die! Cyclops will toss your head to Medusa."

      He wasn't sure what he'd done wrongly. And he dared not ask. He'd be thrown into a boiling oil. He adjured the wailing heart to sustain till the master left. He was also in odd terms with other gladiators. He always promised himself that being among them would be but for a few while. But to his utmost dismay, the gladiator with red head had mused:

      "The robe on you belongs to Bìxîa."

      That was the term for the master. None called him by an English name. His Mandarin nationality was not to be foiled by some contractions of gladiators from different walks of life. His robe had he put on. He knew what that meant to them. He saw how concerned they were. Cyclops was the greatest beast ever bought as a gladiator. Being a man was a stray for him. He was a worn warthog. 

     He'd felt no remorse for what he'd done. What need of strays was that? He had no relation. He'd never loved any lady. He didn't give a damp damn about anybody. If fighting Cyclops would be the syncope time's metrical phonetic would be adopting, why would he be a militation to such generous work of nature. He was fed to stupor that he puked on the kinda life he'd been living. But his pulpy principle wouldn't spare him taking his own life. He'd swore on his hair - his greatest treasure. He had no believe in God. He'd said:

     "If  there's a man by name God, he's got to visit me for questioning. I've got to walk him through how to write an apt script for a character before switching to the camera. And the consent of whoever the character is must be revered."

    That was his sewn soliloquy. His perception of life was strained - eat, kill, live, be killed. He'd done all but the last one. Probably it was time for its attainment. He wasn't moved when he was called upon to fight Cyclops. His pain was about to be chopped into confetti. He was finally going to be liberated. But to the end of the moment, he'd been averting all the blows fostered by Cyclops. He had no idea what had been happening. He wasn't matter-of-factly willing to die, but he'd eeriely embraced it if it came running towards him. He threw one of his javelins at Cyclops.

    Cyclops ducked it and charged again. This time, the force with which he advanced aided the rage of his blow as his sword sent the cod's shield flying in the air. At that moment, he seemed defenceless and the cry of Cyclop's pursuivants kept ascending, towering over his grit. Mocking his strength. Cyclop would indeed take advantage of the moment. Why shouldn't he? If he was the one, he'd done worst that than. He reached for his second javelin but Cyclop was swift enough to grab before him; he was on him at the moment.

     He felt he needed to do something. He was out of ideas. He must adopt one anytime soon. He needed to have something done. In a hankering haste must he do that. He had no idea what that would be. Soon, his mental horizon began to expand as his wits sucked the waves ideas tracing the shore of his acumen. He had a grasp on it and hewn a lofty tower of it.

     He raised his hand. That was a sign of giving up. But was he supposed to give up? He'd forgotten that he was a death contract for Cyclops. He'd forgotten that he actually was hungry of death. He'd forgotten so many things that he ate all those sapid situations served to him at the Colosseum. His pain was preyed upon by the callous clone.

    Cyclops was not interested in whether he'd given up or not. He was bent on tossing his head to Medusa. He raised his hands in mockery of the cod's proposal of giving up. Chaotic cheering rung across the breath of the agora. He spat repeatedly on the cod chewing keen curses on him. His rage has been tampered with pride. He was no longer eager to humiliate the cod, he was only going to finish up what he'd started. He was only going to make mess of the grit etched in the strength of the cod. He was only going to teach him manners he'd use when he return to the underworld.

     The cod looked across the agora towards the master. The master's gaunt gaze was demeaning. He had a smothered smirk seeped in his visage. He sure was sucking nectar of the gods. His pulpils were lit. The eyes of the apt azure could make no less of the stance tactic twain assumed. He was gay. The cod felt a need to metamorphose that look. To belittle the grit. To make fun of the guts. To make smithereens of the pride that'd made rots of the master's link of thoughts. He was going to think fast.

    Ergo, if his giving in had been embraced, he'd at the moment been contending with a trained tiger. Any gladiator who gave in was to fight a famished tiger. It wouldn't have been much of a task, for he'd made pawn of hundreds of tigers, though he'd never given in! His gaze again was restored on the worn warthog wallowing in pride. He was at the verge of making a mess of his head. His bronze helmet leasing a partial view of his bulky eyes. His robe was weighed 800 shekels and his spear, lots of tons of iron. A blow only would crush the metal helmet of the cod. A thrust would had munched the 150 shekels weight of the cod's robe. He was in no league with the beast.

     Cyclops at the final ovation and cheer lifted his hands and brought his sassy sword down to meet the moaning earth; the cod had rolled in between his legs to the other side. The cod had quickly grabbed the javelin Cyclops has dropped before the proposed blow. Cyclops then turned to meet a javelin suckling in his left rib. The robe had paved a way as he turned. Cyclops threw the cod away with the other hand and removed the jolting javelin. The cod was at the moment by his sword. 

      Cyclops staggered and with his left hand on the gore ran towards the cod with all the breath in him. His spear was poised as aimed at the cod at closure. He did duck it. And gasping for air, Cyclops felon flat fell before the cruising cod. The cod at that moment, for the first time in his life was gay. That moment was such the appealing one. He savored the aroma of the awe and disapproval choking the atmosphere. He then took the sword by the greave on the left leg of the fallen, removed his helmet and was about to ensue a blow when a husky hymn in ajar interrupted:

     "Peace! Walk away."

      That was the master. The cod couldn't make meaning of such intrusion. He was actually mad at the master. He could not show it. But he knew what he could. He edged towards the exit of the Colosseum where only gladiators would take. Then at the opening, he ran back to the fallen who was recently striving to have his legs on the earth. With the sword firmly clasped to his hand, he divorced the head and the body. All were awed!

      At that, he lifted the head and dangled it in the hair towards the master in a display of mockery. The master was stupefied in rage. He had no idea what else he was missing out on the makes of such crazy gladiator. His awe strangled patience and rage was kindled. He sent four hefty gladiators to seize the cod. As they fastened towards him, he spoke. And they halted!

    "Hark! Unpleasant Ja Lia. What injustice had mated with you! Only that I had your rusty robe worn and you wished me such death? If he'd cut my head, would you spill, 'Walk away'? But when I should have my way, you wanted someone to halt. Well I had it! When last did you have the robe washed, for my breath nagged me till dawn. Let apt abyss swallow you! I'll leave your presence forever, and if you seek me you'll have your head tossed to that moaning Medusa you're loyal to."

      Firstly, the master had no idea from where he learnt his name. Secondly such courage wasn't to be typical of a gaunt gladiator. He couldn't fathom. Striving to make meaning of the mess, the cod made for his way through the opening and was lost to the height of the hay.