Flesh Worn Stone by John Burks

him and nodded, stepping forward and slamming a fist home while the other man was distracted with Block’s ravings from the side. He fell in a crumpled pile with the other man coming down quickly onto his chest, pinning his shoulder’s down with his knees. Steven could see the man whisper sorry before pummeling his opponent. He lashed out, fist after fist, until the blood pouring from his knuckles was indistinguishable from the blood on the other man’s face. The crowd cheered frantically, almost orgasmically, as one. Even Steven’s heart raced, a combination of the crowd’s energy and the adrenaline from watching the fight.

    When the pinned man moved no more Block’s man stood, blood dripping from his hands, and stepped back. He looked at his leader hesitantly.

    “Do it, goddamn it!” Block screamed. “Do it for the Cave.”

    The man nodded in agreement and bent, untying the hemp rope that served as a belt through his opponent’s dirty and torn trousers. He rolled the man over on his stomach and pulled the trousers down past his knees. Standing, he let his own ragged pants fall to the ground and then grasped his flaccid penis, stroking it to make it erect.

    “Fuck,” Darius whispered, barely audible over the din of the crowd, “it is rape.”

    The crowd cheered the man on like he was a runner heading home, but it didn’t seem to have any affect. He looked at his boss desperately for help. Block nodded to a couple nearby women who rushed out to the man, kneeling in front of him and working his penis and testicles in a mad effort to help him with an erection. The man leaned his head backwards, deep in concentration.

    Minutes passed and the crowd hushed in anticipation of the grand finale. It became so quiet that Steven could actually hear the birds circling high above the canyon walls.

    “This is insane,” he whispered. “How could a man perform like this?”

    “You might have to, one day,” John whispered back. “You should steel yourself for that. We all should.”

    Several more moments passed and the women, in frustration, pulled away from the still flaccid fighter in disgust. Block shook his head sadly and then signaled for his remaining men to enter the fray.

    “No, god damn it,” the man with his penis in his hand pleaded. “I can get it up. I know I can.”

    “I’m sorry,” Block told him simply as the dozen others tackled him. Steven couldn’t see the stricken man at the bottom of the pile, only the hands and fists of his attackers. He heard him scream, for a few seconds, and then there was silence. Once the man was dead, his attackers stood and lined up behind the other combatant who was still knocked out.

    One by one, they took turns raping the man—none of them apparently having a problem with an erection. Halfway through he awoke, and his screams were audible over the roar of the crowd. Those not in the act held him down while the last few men finished. The audience went to orgasm with the final man, a collective climax, and then turned their attention to the screen.

    The dozen men helped their bloodied and beaten comrade up, slapping him on the back and telling him what a fine job he’d done. He tried a smile but his face was so swollen and bloody from his fight that it looked more like a twisted jack-o-lantern carved by a three year old. They turned to the screen as well and the residents of the Cave waited in silence.

    The red screen turned to the live camera feed and, once again, it showed the torso of a man sitting in a stone chair, his head cut off by the top of the camera. His hand was outstretched, his thumb level. The image wavered for a moment, cut by grain and static, and then the thumb flashed down. There was a collective gasp as the screen went blank.

    The crowd milled for a few moments, looking up hopefully at the steel doors and the garbage shoot.

    “I guess that wasn’t good enough,” Darius said.

    “And so they, we, won’t eat,” John