As the airlock opened and one goon each stood along with little Kull MacCracken next to Princess of the Fight, Cheryl and the other milled about with Brett as he selected the three beauties that would attend them at the after party, something slammed into the side of Bronson’s head and splattered—a beer, a full liter of beer, a can thank goodness!

The goon then placed one arm around Bronson’s shoulders and began shoving through the crowd towards the processional hallway.

There were shrill boyish screams of “Breeder, bleeder,” “baseless-racists” and “hater-baiter,” and hundreds of fanboys, taking up the cause of Shaka Hulu and the Fight Prince and Lotto Lover, who had been robbed of their chance to be deflowered by their African Hero by Bronson Caan, infamous heterosexual male champion, were surging towards him.

The goon was somewhat shaken and blurted, “Can you imagine, Bronze, if we get murdered by these shagboys, how humiliating that would be?”

“I’ll—”

“No you won’t, Champ. You’re the subject. I’ll get terminated if I let you hurt any non-coms.”

With that the goon front kicked one shagboy, caving in his chest and launching him into another shagboy, whose neck snapped and both fell dead like ruined lovers in May at the feet of the surging crowd of enraged shagboys.

The tableaux held for a cold moment, and then the fanboys started to snarl and growl and creep forward, locking arms and then, came a shower of beer cans from over their heads and the voice of the big Samoan woman who had professed her love for him before, “Smear the queers, girls—for Cube!”

“For Cube!” came a high-octave scream and hundreds of shaggirls, first the naked bikini girls, breasts and butts giggling, then the sarong girls bearing down on the fanboys like sumo wrestlers, followed by the mass of dresses cheering and screaming and throwing beer cans over the heads of their sisters.

It was a slaughter. Only the seats, two in every three filled with inanimate seating companions, saved the fanboys from being trampled into mush. As it was about a dozen soon found themselves on the wrong side of the seating and being stomped and punched and elbowed—the sarong girls doing their best to imitate Bronson’s trademark magnatronic elbow stroke…

He was looking on in a daze at the insanity of these shaggirls and shagboys battling like Stone Age savages. Then he was between both goons, being carried off with his feet dragging, Cheryl and two incredibly beautiful bikini girls—no three—were helping Brett along. He turned over his shoulder and looked at Brett questioningly and the old fellow shrugged his shoulders, “Dese big titty bitchez was closest. Sides, da big girlz is crushin da faɡɡots—who wanz ta get in da middle a dat!”

Within mere seconds they were at the arch of the processional way and the goons were running in sweat, making Bronson wonder about their conditioning and diet. Maybe he could help them out. After all, they just saved him from the humiliation of fighting amongst the fans.

The three naked beauties, the one with the almost normal range implants waving her lottery ticket guaranteeing her first kiss at the after party, Cheryl, still stunned-looking but no longer crying, Brett Scott and the two goons, all stopped and stood for a moment, watching the rout of the shagboys as the sarongs and dresses and naked bikini girls rolled over the shrieking males in their blue suits and polo shirts and speedos—dressed according to the same fitness scheme as the women—and Bronson sighed, “We made it. Thanks, Security. You guys are the best.”

Brett then pointed an old bent finger across the arena under the cube, to where Kull MacCracken was being held by the hands and feet in the Princess Throne by three very large sarong girls and another one, even larger, was mounting him and Brett cackled like a devil who had eaten too many dry crackers, “No account potato-nigga! Whose da robot coach now, huh!”

Bronson recalled with some sadness how upset Brett had been when Kull had called Bronson a robot behind the sanitation dumpster after that fight last year and how Brett had went on and on about how he wished he was still young so he could shut that “so-en-so” up.

‘Well, Kull better come up for some air before long or he might not make it,’ mused Bronson.

The lotto girl was now riding piggyback on Bronson, hooking her feet around in front of his jock and cooing in his ear as the goons kept a hand each on his shoulder and the senior goon said, “Follow us, people. This is bad. The cleaners might be called in if the rest of the squad can’t shut it down.”

As they headed down the hall to the transit deck, a shagboy screamed as a bikini girl ripped his ear off between her perfectly white front teeth and the persistent insanity in the amphitheater propelled them all down the hall. Hundreds of hands clapped and beat seat backs like they were war drums behind them even as the sun fell beyond the west door to the transit deck they hurried towards.