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1
Zarema Abdulaziz had a hobby
of destroying her opponents’ throats, and now she sat atop of a young russian
fighter, Yulia Ivanova. The actual fight lasted about twenty seconds. After
that the arabian woman just threw Yulia around the ring, enjoying Yulia's
helpless sobs and anguished moans. In the end she gave the russian fighter a
face kick, which sent Yulia to the mat, while many a bloodied tooth left the
confines of the russian's mouth.
When Yulia opened her eyes again, she saw Zarema grinning down at her, sitting
on the girl’s chest. With her knees Zarema locked both Yulia’s arms. Zarema’s
hands were resting on Yulia's neck, and her thumbs were gently caressing the russian's
throat. Yulia's eyes widened. She began to say something in russian – probably
asking Zarema to have pity – but of course, even if the arabian fighter had
spoken the loser’s language, it’d fall on deaf ears all the same. Zarema
fastened her handgrip around Yulia’s throat. The loser knew it was the end, yet
she kept staring up beggingly. Even after Zarema’s thumbs punctured her throat,
sinking deep into the poor girl’s flesh, and a fountain of deep red gusched up,
covering Zarema’s arms and neck, and the left side of her chin – even then,
choking on her own blood, Yulia kept weakly shaking her head no, looking
up into the winner's face.
For a while Zarema just savored Yulia’s agony, enjoying her own power over
Yulia. Then the loser’s hands fell aside. It was time for one final good-buy.
“You mind if I take a look what you’re inside like, russian whore?” Zarema
asked.
Yulia’s eyes were fluttering shut as bloody foam came out of her mouth. She
hardly appreciated the reality any more.
With a grunt of primal satisfaction Zarema tore Yulia’s neck wide open. Lazily,
Yulia’s eyes flew open one final time, as if slightly amazed that the terrible
ordeal wasn’t over yet. Then they were two vacant pieces of glass.
2
An hour before that, if seen
by a passerby, the six young women standing outside the club’s entrance
wouldn’t strike anyone as potential mortal enemies. In fact, they
weren’t. They didn’t give a fuck about each other and came for the cash. Nothing
personal. Well, some of them, like Zarema, enjoyed their dominance over a dying
rival, but sick as it seemed to be, even the crazy arabian didn’t hate anyone –
she just enjoyed killing. What might have occupied the casual observer’s mind
for a couple of seconds, is how strikingly different the women outside the
building were dressed. Some of them wore business suits, one was dressed in an evening
gown, although most of them were in simple jeans and sweatshirts, or jackets.
However, one thing they all had in common – gym bags. No fucking purses on
those ladies. No sir. Each of them had a gym bag. And they were silent, waiting
for the door to open. That was another thing – the passerby may have wondered
why these young ladies are waiting, whatever they were waiting for, in grave
silence. However, he (or she) would probably think that a pause in their
chitchat is taking place, and he (or she) just happened to walk on it. Big
deal. Little would this individual know there was no such thing as a chitchat
among these six women to begin with, right until three of them died within the
next two hours. And after that the remaining warriors didn’t talk to each other
as well. Well, almost. Winners returned to the locker room, took a shower,
changed back into street wear, collected their money and left.
The passerby would go his marry way then,
thinking nothing of the group, except that most ladies were really attractive,
and obviously involved into some kind of sport. Had this person stuck around
for a few more hours, he (or she) might have noticed that only half of those
who entered the building have ever left it. It’d be dark by then, so they
wouldn’t notice anyone’s bruises or swollen lips or black eyes. But, of course,
nobody ever stuck around.
Klempnerstrasse was a small street in a silent
backwater of Berlin. Officially The Hellgate was a private club, but
nobody ever saw people lining up and bribe the doorman to get in. Nobody ever
partied in there, and no disco nights ever took place in this humble, plain
looking joint. In fact, on the outside The Hellgate represented a black
metal door with a security camera at the corner of a long, gray, three story
building. There were other entrances, all bogus, including an
empty, deserted fast food restaurant on the opposite corner. Nobody knew or
cared about what was inside. Sometimes people walked in. Sometimes those
people were stunningly beautiful ladies.
3
Zarema paraded around the room, knowing she’s
observed by dozens of viewers. The buzzer went off, indicating that the door
was open for her to leave. In distaste she spat at Yulia’s body and marched
toward the exit.
The attendants walked in to collect the corpse
as she strode out. With them they had a body bag, but they only needed it for a
short period of time; most fighters ended their lives suffering severe
injuries, and of course nobody wanted to stain the floors outside the fighting
room with blood and gore. In the body bags the murdered ones were brought to
the minus fifth floor of the building which was two floors below the fighting room
itself. There the corpses were dissolved in acid baths and washed down the
drain. Within a few hours the once proud and beautiful Yulia, Kyokushin
Karate black belt, winner in nine death matches, would turn into a reddish acid
soup. No doubts though, she will be remembered. At least according to
Giancarlo, the broadcaster who always commented the matches on the tube. The
four remaining fighters were in the locker room, waiting for their names to be
called out. None of them knew which of the other three they’ll have to face. It
wasn’t really important to the wisest of them. To survive such an event you had
to forget that somebody else’s life was at stake. The alternative was losing
your own, which is why best thing was to regard your opponents-to-be as walking
pieces of meat. Your mission was to unteach them how to walk and speak and breath, and to take your money these other bitches had the nerve to claim.
4
Petra Schneider was 41.
A tall, muscular brunette with short hair. An attractive woman with more
than twenty years of judo and kudo experience, and the urge to kill other women
on regular basis. Fast and strong like a terminator she usually kept the time
of her matches under a minute – this is how much time she required to turn a
strong, self-confident fighter into a wreck.
Petra enjoyed the killing. Outside the ring she was a loving wife and mother,
with a rich doctor husband and two daughters – ten and twelve. But she enjoyed
the killing alright. Not only the final moments of it, but the whole thing –
first the preparations in the locker room. Everybody changes into their
fighting outfit, warming up, sizing up their potential rivals, some of whom
they already saw in action.
Then the first two names are called, and maybe one of them is yours. If not,
you keep waiting until it's your turn. At last they call you out, and then,
with even more consideration you look at your opponent. And she looks at you.
Together you leave the locker room, and the guards bring you to the
elevator, and down, to the minus third floor, with its soundproof walls,
and the fighting room, where the reaper was waiting for either life to end.
Then there’s a fight, and the look of terror in the eyes of Petra’s opponents.
Intermingled with awe, but mostly it’s terror. The other woman finally understands
that the time for her to die has finally come. Frantically the poor bitch tries
to turn the tables, but it's all futile.
In the end Petra returns to the locker room on the minus second floor, to take
a shower and change back into street wear and leave the place with money,
whereas the other woman is turned into a pin soup on the minus fifth.
All this – the whole concept of deadly competition, as well as the potential
danger of losing her own life – brought shivers of excitement down Petra’s spine.
In her daily life she loved it to be a mom and a housewife. In this other life
of hers, however, she enjoyed it to kill and to destroy. To prove her dominance
to other species. All the others knew the risk. And so did she. Whatever happened
to you in this joint, no one but yourself was to blame.
END OF SAMPLE
