“He makes a good point,” the strongman called out with a sage nod. “Usually in any gambling situation, it’s the player with the most money on the line that gets to roll the dice.”
“Well, I have two silvers here,” yelled out another of his friends, from his spot across the stage. “That’s twice your bet and that’ll be my belt.”
Several other calls of bets went out, with each youth offering up increasing amounts of silvers. Individually, each youth wasn’t sacrificing too terribly much in the way of money, especially in a town where they relied more on barter and trust. A silver coin was about what each person that age could make in a week, doing heavy labor and claiming a share of the market payout.
But the showman was no stranger to bidding wars, and he was capable of seeing opportunity when it clinked so easily into his coin purse. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he called out. “I’ll admit that while I am supernaturally strong, even I would tire should I have to battle all of you strapping young farm lads one after another. I might even lose near the end, and the final victor might never know if it was because they were truly stronger than I, or if their friend’s tired me out first. Plus, who would volunteer to be first knowing that?
“No, no,” he continued, pacing his makeshift stage atop his wagon. “There’s only one fair way to settle this. The initial claim was that it would be me versus the strongest of you. Silver coins versus the belt. The best option here is for each of you with an interest in fighting me, to put in… oh, let’s say five silver coins, and have a free-for-all. Last man standing gets the honor of taking me on.”
Welter and his friends grinned. “Done!” they all seemed to shout at once.
An area was quickly cleared, Mrs. Adranas was given the silvers to count and hold, and no less than eleven young men were stretching and flexing, waiting for the word to start. The showman’s mouth watered. Fifty-five silver coins was a veritable fortune for him at this point. He could give up this traveling gig and buy a small stake in a cafe or bar in one of the cheaper parts of a city. Maybe even something nicer if he placed a few good bets at a casino.
The strongman’s mind was wandering about, trying to imagine the ways he could multiply and spend his money, that he nearly failed to notice everyone was waiting for him to signal the start of the free-for-all! “Begin!” he called out happily. Even though he wasn’t a highly skilled fighter, he knew that his odds against an exhausted farm boy with half his strength were pretty good. He was betting that the youths would spend all of their adrenaline fighting each other and have nothing left in reserve.
CRACK!
“Arrgghh!!” came a sharp cry, breaking through to interrupt the strongman’s inner thoughts. His eyes quickly scanned the makeshift arena and he spotted one young man lying in the dirt, twisting in every direction, howling in pain, and holding his arm as if it had been broken.
“Oooh!” roared the crowd as Welter grabbed one of his friend’s by the throat, lifted him up, and slammed him to the ground in one smooth motion. The strongman started scanning the rest of the scene frantically, trying to figure out what was happening. Out of the original eleven, only five were still standing. Two others appeared to be unconscious on the ground, three were being helped away, nursing either broken legs or arms, and the last one was covered in blood that seemed to be spewing unchecked from his nose and mouth.
Welter was holding his own against two of the others, who apparently had decided to team up against their self-appointed leader. The final two combatants were alternating gut-punches. The strongman was almost sick from his stomach on the spot.
“Ah, them’s our boys,” came a chuckling voice from nearby the strongman. One of the older villagers had climbed up on the stage for a better seat. “Get all of that sun in them all day long out in the fields. Boils their blood right up it does. No way out for it but through missing teeth.”
At this point, Welter had smashed the heads of his two ‘friends’ together three times so far before letting them fall to the ground unconscious. The other duo had just finished their bout, with the loser having collapsed to the ground, coughing and spitting up. With just two boys left, the townsfolk got rowdier and louder. The showman’s head was fairly swimming from all of the gory violence he was witnessing. Welter and his opponent traded a few hits each until Welter finally got a chance to kick the other boy in the privates. It caused him to double over, but he didn’t fall.
“Ah, this bit here,” the older man went on, providing commentary for the showman. “This bit you’ll want to see. Our Welter is known for this when he goes one-on-one in a first-to-fall.”
The showman watched, horrified as Welter apparently grabbed the other boy by the head and then started slamming him own forehead into the boy’s face. While gruesome, the strongman was thankful that Welter’s back was to him, sparing him the sight that he knew would make him violently ill.
“See,” the old man continued as if nothing was wrong with the seemingly overly violent melee, “in a first-to-fall, Welter figured that if he never actually lets his opponent hit the ground, he never has to stop fighting.”
It seemed to be true too. Welter was well on his tenth head-butt but he refused to let the other boy’s body hit the ground. “But, but, he cheated earlier! That was an illegal kick to the… you know.”
The old man laughed and waved a hand, “Oh that, heh, kids will be kids. Once that blood gets going it’s hard to remember rules.”
After the fifteenth strike, Welter seemed to remember that there was still one more opponent left. He let the body fall to the ground and slowly turned to face the showman. His face and chest were covered in blood and he had a sick grin on his face. Welter raised a hand to the strongman and pointed, “Fifty-five silvers versus your belt!” he shouted.
Unable to hold it in anymore, the showman puked all over his wagon. He recovered quickly, though his face would probably never regain a normal color again. “Take it! You win!” he called out. He dove inside his wagon, bringing with him several of his props. As he emerged into the driver’s seat, he threw the gaudy belt to the ground. “I just remembered an important appointment in Sanfor… Sandis… in the city! I wish I could stay, but I’d say you’ve earned this my boy!”