Epic Showdown

Drip, drip, drip.

Crimson splats dot the dry, red track. "Ge Garisan" has gone. Crouching, waiting, poised as silent hawks. The kill is ripe.

Hark. Out. Steps, rapid quick fire. Claw the rubber. Flex, tense, push-off.

Pound and pound round the bend they ran. Two stacked together. One awaits along. Out and out, two pull around a monstrous lap. Blazing, the sun strikes their backs. Blazing, their feet rip the track. Out and round they lean to left, creeping behind a silent threat. They and he aside. Out the curve they hug the white, out the curve they hug the bit line. Roars aplenty the two are foregone, poor the third for one last swansong. The wind is screaming, screeching, crying.

"Slow down!"

Fifty-nine not too plenty, perfect. The battle is over, number two is two. Down, left down to go but two is still two. One is one but how high, how out a one? Demons flashing, wailing, moaning. Hips a-wrecking down, left down. In line with the line, yellow line, white line. Imps are coursing through the veins but the gates are still holding, the white line in sight. Flex, tense, drop-off.

Through the tape, a twist of the wrist. Sweet saliva, stemless elation. O, the legs are heavy, yet steps are light and soft. O, the mind is swirling, but with colours of gold and red.

No, no. The battle ignited by the fighter's creed. Silence no more, the silence is heard. Jaws of silver sink into red. Bloodied pushing, bleeding roots. Oh the mighty fall this day.