Free New Title 1 by Edward Lee, John Pelan Page B

entrance?”
    Straker glanced. A big beefy guy in a black shirt, short dark hair and a goatee. “That’s Goon?” he questioned.
    “No, no, that’s Felander, Goon’s manager, he used to wrestle as one of the Riders with Dare, and the Druid, and Rex Ruger. He was The Pain Doctor,” she whispered. “That’s the guy who’ll lead us to Goon and the evidence you need to put him away.”
    Straker didn’t get it. He still couldn’t reason why they didn’t get federal help in to go after Goon directly; after all, everything said this guy was a serial-killer. But now the crowd was in such an uproar, Straker could scarcely hear his thoughts much less dwell on the reason he was here.
    The ring announcer’s voice jerked Straker’s attention back up. Then a wash of heavy-metal guitar riffs, like chainsaws buzzing in unison, cut through the air.
    “And tonight’s opponent, ladies and gentlemen, entering the ring accompanied by his manager—at six feet seven inches tall and weighing in a 350 pounds! Hailing from parts unknown! Gooooooooooon! ”
    Straker shuddered at the crowd’s response: a deafening meld of boos, jeers, and cheers. A shadow which seemed immense lingered at the entrance, and Straker could only stare at its size. But suddenly Melinda’s hands were on him again.
    “Stand in front of me,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to see me.”
    “What? You mean you’ve met this guy?”
    “No, but when I finally do meet him, I want to be a fresh face. I don’t want to be just another rat he’s seen at every card.”
    Straker guessed she had a point. He stood in front of her, letting her essentially hide behind him. The line of ringrats opposite them actually recoiled when the shadow emerged. “Go home Goon!” one yelled and threw a cup. Another yelled: “Don’t you hurt Dare!” And another, “If you hurt Slick Dare I’ll kill you!” Straker’s brow rose at their seeming conviction; fake or not, these people were getting into this no less enthusiastically than if it were an NFL playoff game. But Straker’s brow arched even further when he got a look at…
    Goon, he thought. Holy motherfucking shit…
    Straker doubted that he’d ever seen a more physically awesome—or dangerous—human being in his life. The six-seven was no lie, and neither was the 350. In spite of the barrel belly, this was all muscle. Legs like carven tree trunks flexed beneath black full-length tights. Pectorals popped, the size of tortoise shells, and his arms were probably larger and stronger than the average man’s legs.
    Melinda peered from behind Straker’s neck. “He bench presses 600, and can squat half a ton. He cracks coconuts between his knees.”
    “I believe it,” Straker muttered. But scariest of all, somehow, was the black and red mask laced to his face. Deadpan eyes glared out through the holes. Teeth glittered in the tiny mouth slit. He looked like something more than human, or something less. I wouldn’t take that guy on with a five-shot Remington full of 10-gauge, Straker determined. This guy was a human meat-rack, a walking chassis of convoluted muscle mass and bone structure. Even his shadow seemed awesome; it trailed behind him like a wicked mascot.
    Melinda came back around once Goon stepped into the ring. The ring floor visibly wobbled under his weight. Dare strutted like a cocksure rooster, taunting Goon with drowned out braggadocio. Goon only opened and closed his ham-hock-sized fists and stared the champion down.
    Dare spun around, raised his arms to the crowd, then began to remove the Liberace robe. Straker could smell the “work” a mile away. With Dare’s back turned, Goon charged, lifted him up, and pulled a hard belly-to-back suplex. Dare howled at the impact. And for the next fifteen minutes, Goon and Dare went at it with mutual pile-drives, bodyslams, armbars, and attempted sleeper holds. Straker was amazed, next, when Goon—weight and girth notwithstanding—rose into the air and