Lights singe your rods and cones as you find your seat in the nosebleeds. You squeeze onto the bench. Left, a toned set of titanium-alloy shoulders gesticulating bright blue arms in ecstasy. Right, a faceless silicone mannequin with a camera in its forehead. You look up, searching between the spots burned on your retinas. There is a large holographic jumbotron with two names emblazoned across it. “Rossi VS Reader”. Speakers beneath your feet begin barking my overexcited announcer voice. “Well folks, Welcome to the Godmachine! Tonight you’re in for five – that’s right, five – rounds of flesh melting fun. A special treat today, courtesy of the terrible, the beautiful, the ravenous Rossi! She has brought out five never-before-seen machines, each still cold from the Morticians table.”
The lights cut, the arena goes dark, you watch the stage. “First up is… What Comes Next!” You see a rotting android shamble into the open arena. The Reader squares up against it. What Comes Next moves in a slow unsettling stutter, a rotting disease given sentience. You can’t see the fight, so you listen to my voice, “Oh! The Reader tackles Rossi’s Godmachine, but what’s this? It seems What Comes Next has put The Reader in a stupor, it’s that mesmerizing decay – you’ve got to watch out for it, folks! What a knockout by What Comes Next. Don’t go away folks, next up The Reader faces off against Rossi’s Put Your Hands Up and Praise.”
You think there will be time to recover, a break or breather for The Reader, but there isn’t. Its straight into the next bout, no filler or intermissions. The android is unassuming, simple, but something lurks beneath. My loud voice reverberates through your skeletal system. “The Reader is up and grappling with Rossi’s second machine – there’s a struggle – it seems The Reader can hold their own here – Oh no! Rossi comes around with a chokehold and The Reader is out again! Rossi is 2 for 2, folks.”
Small medical bots revive The Reader and the next opponent comes slinking out to the edge of the ring. It’s dark, imposing, shapeless. You watch it circle The Reader with the intent to harm. “This is Lore, folks, and it is not to be trifled with. Just when you think you’ve got ahold of it, you realize you’ve got a grip on your own throat. This is one sinister creature, dear patrons, a real serpent in the garden of Eden – and look at that! It strikes down The Reader with deadly precision, look at those fangs sinking into The Readers neck! Gruesome and magnificent!”
The minuscule medical bots zip forth, mop up the pools of nanohemocyte, and revive The Reader once more. There is no break. You are transfixed, frozen, unable to stop taking in the fights, it trammels you into the bleachers. “Breakneck speed, friends, breakneck speed! Here comes Ex-Stasis, a pitiable thing – just look at it.”
You watch a pile of flesh and limbs roll into the arena, skin black and necrotic. At first you pity the thing, its horrid state playing along your vertebrae, until you see its eyes. They are white with hate and malice, hot with violence and evil. You can hardly watch the ending as Ex-Stasis tears out The Readers artificial heart, squeezing it into a pink pulp. You blackout.
When you awaken, the title fight with Godmachine herself is over. You are told it was exquisite, inspiring, and ethereal. You are told it was ike incense for the eyes, beautiful and burning.
