Its noon, the sun blasts a dry harsh heat beating down on the clay of the stadium, tattered blue flags wave in the wind above. The sweat of the gladiator shines of his tanned skin, and blinds a crow above. The crowd roars.
Everyone's on their feet screaming, one girl sits she holds a doll a pacifist in a world of death, tears roll down her cheek leaving a clean stain on her dusty skin, the gleeful screams of her family pierce her ears.
People scream for blood, the underdog, sweating bare chested, a pair of short shorts show off his large muscular and tight ridged behind, his chest hair slick with sweet, scars on his back, his blond hair flies in the air his eyes distant, lost in another world, motionless black.
Two figures emerge from the darkness, pink and purple plastic suits, their hammers massive and the signs of use, the blood and bits of flesh from the last victim. From behind and hammer strikes from behind, down, this is over, the bright green ninja made it so. Hammers fall of soft flaccid organs, and sensitive orbs of tender flesh. The crowd loves a painful death, blood soaking into the floorm the screams of pain lost in the lust of blood. Then next hammer is the finisher, the grand finale.