There was a brief pause in the proceedings, during which Glazkov took a seat on the stool in his corner of the ring — sipping from a water bottle — and the body of the tramp was gathered up. This respite didn't last long, however, because by his yawns it was clear The Tsar was eager for more action. He saw very little himself these days, instead getting his fill of killing vicariously. But he missed it, oh God how he missed it. Maybe if Glazkov kept looking at his bodyguards that way he would find himself facing The Tsar in the ring? The thought both excited and troubled him.
But that wouldn't be tonight. Because the next participant was already being forced to the ring, the crowds parting so that he could be brought through. The man wore what looked to be sacking or a large blanket and appeared to be in even worse condition than the previous fighter. Obviously picked up off the streets, like the majority of them, his long, greasy hair was straggly and he was having trouble standing, limping into the centre of the ring.
In fact, it looked like this newcomer was about to collapse.
Glazkov rose from his stool, spitting out a mouthful of water. He wandered over to the man, looking down on him in disdain. Rubbing his hands together, Glazkov got started, much to the audience's satisfaction. He threw a punch that landed squarely in the man's kidneys. Then Glazkov clasped his hands together, leaping up and bringing them down hard on the man's back. The figure toppled onto the floor.
The Tsar yawned again. This fight was barely going to be worth watching; it would be over in seconds at this rate.
The people's champion kicked this beggar creature in the side, rolling him over once, twice, so that again he faced the floor. Then Glazkov raised his booted foot to bring it stomping down on the man's head.
Only it stopped in mid-trample. Glazkov looked down the length of his leg, realising that this man, this frail example of street scum, had actually caught his foot and was holding it fast.
Pushing, the man toppled Glazkov over. He landed on his back, an explosion of air being forced out of him. The spiky-haired gladiator scrambled about, clambering to get up quickly; he wasn't used to being the one on the floor. And it wasn't good for the crowd to see him that way.
As he was rising, so too was his new foe. Only this one kept rising, and rising… and rising. Letting go of the sacks and blankets he'd wrapped around him, Glazkov's opposite number revealed his true size for the first time.
He stood a good few feet above the champion, and his muscles, visible beneath the khaki T-shirt he wore, were easily bigger than Glazkov's — as impressive as those were. The crowd, who'd been cheering, though not quite as loudly as they had in the previous match, suddenly took notice of what had happened. There was deathly silence.
The Tsar frowned and inched forward in his seat. Bohuslav placed both hands on the rail and peered down while the twins looked on. It was like they were all watching the miracle of birth, and in a sense they were. A transformation akin to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Only this insect was olive-skinned and, as he swept back his greasy black hair, he sneered first at the people in the 'royal box', then at Glazkov.
The champion swallowed. The roles had suddenly been reversed, and Glazkov now found himself being towered over.
It was small comfort, but he was tossed a mace as spiky as his hair, while his opponent had to make do with receiving a length of chain. As Glazkov hunched down, circling the larger man and trying to weigh up his options, the olive-skinned colossus moved to follow him, obviously still having trouble with one leg… or was it his foot? Yes, The Tsar noted that he wasn't putting as much weight on one side, as if an old injury was bothering him.
Glazkov struck and the blow glanced off the bigger man's forearm, cutting him, but not badly. At the same time, the bigger man unfurled his chain, throwing it out like a whip and snaking it around Glazkov's neck. Tugging, he yanked the champion towards him, then punched him hard in the face.
Glazkov unfurled along the chain, spinning away. His legs gave out. He ended up on the floor again with a thud, shaking his head.
The giant, seemingly in no rush at all, gave Glazkov time to recover and get to his feet as he wrapped the chain around his fist. This time when Glazkov took a swing with the mace, the newcomer batted it out of his hand, then punched the champion again, using the chain as a knuckle duster. Teeth and blood flew from Glazkov's mouth, as his head rocked to one side. Regardless of the fact it was their hero who was getting thrashed out there, the crowd responded well, cheering louder than ever.
"Who is this?" Bohuslav muttered to himself, but loudly enough for The Tsar to hear.
Glazkov was crawling around, spitting out more blood and teeth. When he looked up, his jaw was a mess. But he wasn't defeated just yet. Someone, probably one of The Tsar's guards, threw him a metal fighting pike.
He used this to help himself up, then turned it on his enemy, running at him — trying to skewer him on the end. In spite of his bad foot, the large man evaded the ungainly attack, whipping out the chain and lashing Glazkov across the back of the neck.
"Mudak!" growled the spiky-haired Russian. Livid, he tried again, but the giant used his chain to snag the pike, spoiling Glazkov's aim. Try as he might, the champion just wasn't strong enough to bring the weapon back towards his target. Then suddenly it was snatched from his grasp.
Before Glazkov could do anything, the pike had been turned on him and thrust through the Russian's shoulder until it came out the other side. Then, holding onto the pike, the man brought up a boot and kicked Glazkov off. He staggered, not quite grasping what had just happened. Then the pain registered and he howled.
The giant didn't give him long for self pity. Hefting the pike like a staff, the man struck Glazkov first in the stomach, then under his chin; with such force that Glazkov was lifted into the air, before landing heavily on the floor.
Glazkov didn't have a clue what was coming next — and that was probably for the best. The stranger bent and aimed the pike at Glazkov's head, forcing it in just behind the right temple. With his considerable bulk behind the strike, the man was able to push the sharpened end right through Glazkov's skull. Like the last time, the giant kicked Glazkov off the spear and the former champion's now lifeless body hit the ground.
The audience was speechless. They'd seen Glazkov in some challenging fights but never known him get more than a few cuts or bruises. What were they supposed to do now? They couldn't chant this new champion's name, because they didn't know it. Besides, he didn't look like the kind of man you applauded. More like trembled before.
The Tsar was equally shocked, not least when the bear of a man holding the pike and chain looked up and pointed at him. Bohuslav immediately nodded to the guards at the ring, who entered, raising their AK-47's and demanding that he put down his weapons.
"Call them off!" shouted the stranger in perfect Russian. His voice was deep, his words to the point. When the men remained where they were, and then actually moved closer, the man cocked his head as if to say, That was a big mistake.
Seconds later, the chain was unfurled and the pike was flicked to the side. The Kalashnikovs all fired at the same time, but were quickly knocked out of the guards' hands, completely missing the man in the middle. Having disarmed them, the giant set to work on the men themselves, taking out the closest by simply charging into them like a juggernaut — or flinging the chain at their faces. The others he dispatched with a series of kicks and blows with the pike.