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Slade Starr
Cube 4
The lecture stand lit up, showing a full screen image of Slade Starr, the most beautiful hermaphrodite on earth, the sultry voice of Cube Combat, tall, gracile and voluptuous all at once, skin the shade of hazel, eyes a sparkling green, his-her hair long and blood red, “Bronson,” she-he said, “I’m proud of your composure. The CCP board has approved you for spokesman status and Shockwear is already making offers to buy your contract.”
Something flamed within his chest.
“Slade, I just care about these people here. When I lose I want to be euthanized. Until then…what about Cheryl? This was my fault. I didn’t have enough empathy to realize she was a fangirl.”
Slade soothed in that magnatronic voice, “Bronson—you are who you are. Cheryl is redacted. The rest will be sent down to the closed circuit. Cornerman Scott, what are…”
Bronson looked next to him to see Brett Scott feeling his ancient and somehow erect penis through his sweats and the old kook just drawled, “Bitch, you so fine I’d suck your daddy’s dick—hells, I’ll suck yo dick. This shit is yo fault for wearin’ dat evenin’ dress. I thought ma dick was long ago dead.”
Cheryl pulled away from Brett with a shivering squeak and hugged Bronson’s leg as Slade, obviously listening to an audio feed, recovered her-sir composure and declared, “CCP says this can all go away if you fight three times this week, Bronson—shut up, Brett!—don’t even think about sassing corporate—and how you handle the Cheryl situation, since she has 23-million fans now and is out of the CCP and in medical enrollment for three-minutes now, will determine the nature of the bouts.
“And Cornerman Scott, you will be retired after the third bout, regardless of outcome. There will be a parade, a crib party and celebrity appearances—but you have three fights left and you’re out of the corner at the end of this week. Got it?”
Brett bristled, tapped the head of his penis through his sweats with his fingertips to generate an audible “thwack,” and quipped, “Whateva, Bitch—pull up a face and sit down!”
Slade Starr sneered with disgust at Brett, then smiled plastically at Bronson and signed off video. The fan and SCR monitors returned to active, except for Cheryl’s. Cheryl’s face filter and band were dead blank, floored and stored. Slade Starr’s voice sizzled through the gearing octagon as the sound of the crowd above in the amphitheater roared in the distance.
The door slid open and the two security goons, in body armor and visor, both towering over and broader than Bronson, gauntleted and booted, pointed at Cheryl for extraction and Bronson’s hand went to her shoulder and he snarled, “She gets the fangirl seat. She walks out with me.”
He did not realize until then that these goons were fans as well, for they both saluted him and stood aside at attention.
“Come on, Cheryl, take my hand.”
She stammered something inaudible, so he seized her hand with a gentle confidence and saluted the two goons as he walked out, his action reflected on the numerous feedback screens as the roar of the crowd could be heard like a crashing ocean, dashing some ancient rocks, as the sound of a siren, the voice of Slade Starr sizzled all around, “Once, when the world was young, men fought for our possession. Now, while the world is safely run, heroes fight for us again—for our concession!”
Behind him he could hear Brett giving it to the goons, “Out da way niggachink—en you too snownigga! I was spankin’ you bitch mamma ‘for you was hatched—boy!”
‘Well, I suppose Brett is going down swinging with his mouth like he did with his hands way back when.’
The roar of the crowd hit him and Cheryl collapsed, fell to her knees, so he heaved her over his left shoulder and kept striding, saluting to the execs above first, then waving to the fanboys, who booed him for the most part, and then pointing over and over again at specific, screaming, swooning and shrieking fangirls, decked out in pink dresses, bikinis and even tent-like sarong-shirts depending on their age and fitness. They were all dressed by the aesthetic Funcs during induction and assigned seating, a process which took all day. This is when he would normally select a girl from the pink seats and lead her to the Princess throne at ringside. But he had his princess on his shoulder, and could feel her tears streaming down his lower back and her sobs rocking her pudgy belly back and forth on his shoulder.
‘She sure doesn’t fit as well as the bikini girls. I wonder if I could do this with a sarong girl?’
A huge, fat Samoan woman then shrieked at him as the Chinese goon pushed her back out of the aisle and into her seat between her VGs [4], “Cube, baby—I knew you loved big girls too—I love you!”
Slade Starr could be heard above the screaming fan girls and booing fanboys, “Bronson Caan, purpose-built fighting man, first of his illustrious line. He stands six-feet-three, scales 225 pounds—your Light-Heavyweight Champion, the man they call Cube!”
And the crowd surged like an audible ocean of hysterical and lonely-hearted pain.
Footnotes
-4. Venue Goers, seated companion bots made entirely of Rejuvitech prosthetics, which conduct cube-side banter, pass concession drinks and snacks from servers to live fans and are seated one to each side of each live fan.
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