Vagrants

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THEY SAID THAT THE MAN Jeff was fighting was an Apostle, but robotic gods didn’t bleed, and Canon was about to. The fight was already over; Jeff’s opponent just didn’t know it yet. He stepped forward into Canon’s left hook and let his cheek absorb the blow. He felt his skin split and his brain rattle, but allowing himself to be hit by the gigantic excuse for a man opened his mind.

“All right, that’s enough. Let’s call that a round,” the fat judge from Townend said as he stepped between Jeff and Canon and pushed them to their corners. The thirsty crowd booed the decision; there wasn’t much in the form of entertainment in the bones of Kansas City, and the fights between Fifth Springs and Townend had drawn the largest crowd Jeff had ever seen—most of which were eager to see him beat to a pulp by the much larger man.

“Always the showman, giving the people what they want,” Dane said as he wiped the blood dripping from Jeff’s cheek. “Fine by me—I got a week of partial labor on the big guy.”

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