Sharae
05-29-2007, 06:27 PM
http://fc05.deviantart.com/fs30/f/2008/179/2/b/Dog_Eat_Dog_by_Janarchist.jpg
The bar stank of sweat, bodies pushing against bodies to get a drink, or a seat, or to find a better view. The sound of flesh smacking flesh cracked through the warm smoky air.
A hand. A fist. Capillaries crushed into a mass of bruising. Bone crunching. Two men circled each other, blood running freely from cuts and bruises upon their bare chested primal forms. The crowed roared, leering over the rim of the large pit in which the fight took place. Money changed hands quickly.
It was this that interested her. Men beat each other to death here every night, just as in every place she had ever known. It helped nothing, but a little bit of coin would keep her fed and warm.
She watched the transactions while they watched the pit dogs, her mismatched eyes picking a fool or two. She pushed through the crowd, making her way toward the entryway, her nimble fingers slipping into various pockets as she pressed past drunks and hookers, drug crazed bums and fascistic militia. These were her kind. This was her world.
She felt a hand on her arse, alcohol thick breath on her neck as someone very large and very male pressed up behind her. For a moment she became incredibly aware of her fragility, all skin and bones suddenly encircled by muscle, his hands pawing her small pert breasts. She was young; barely a woman, but she knew exactly what he wanted.
She heard a voice cry out in pain, over the snarling crowd she caught the sound of the crunch of a head smashing against the concrete floor over and over again, seeing the blood slick stone and flesh in her minds eye. She heard the crackling transmitter over on the bar then, droning on about the benevolent Prevailers and their God of caring and hope.
The bar stank of sweat, bodies pushing against bodies to get a drink, or a seat, or to find a better view. The sound of flesh smacking flesh cracked through the warm smoky air.
A hand. A fist. Capillaries crushed into a mass of bruising. Bone crunching. Two men circled each other, blood running freely from cuts and bruises upon their bare chested primal forms. The crowed roared, leering over the rim of the large pit in which the fight took place. Money changed hands quickly.
It was this that interested her. Men beat each other to death here every night, just as in every place she had ever known. It helped nothing, but a little bit of coin would keep her fed and warm.
She watched the transactions while they watched the pit dogs, her mismatched eyes picking a fool or two. She pushed through the crowd, making her way toward the entryway, her nimble fingers slipping into various pockets as she pressed past drunks and hookers, drug crazed bums and fascistic militia. These were her kind. This was her world.
She felt a hand on her arse, alcohol thick breath on her neck as someone very large and very male pressed up behind her. For a moment she became incredibly aware of her fragility, all skin and bones suddenly encircled by muscle, his hands pawing her small pert breasts. She was young; barely a woman, but she knew exactly what he wanted.
She heard a voice cry out in pain, over the snarling crowd she caught the sound of the crunch of a head smashing against the concrete floor over and over again, seeing the blood slick stone and flesh in her minds eye. She heard the crackling transmitter over on the bar then, droning on about the benevolent Prevailers and their God of caring and hope.