Christmas Showdown

The email battle over who’s the greatest martial artist of all time reached its climax at Blå Rock during the Christmas season. The burgers had been devoured. Tranås was nearing the bottom of his third pilsner. His aggression rose in step with his blood alcohol level. Ken sat in full gamma posture. His gaze was as black as his sidekick Stian’s attire. “Bas Rutten? He would’ve beaten the living shit out of Bruce Lee.” Every syllable reeked of hops and malt. A broken man’s breath ought to smell like beer, Stian thought, catching himself thanking higher powers that Ugutt and Rønna weren’t there. This was shaping up to be a long afternoon. “Bullshit. Check the fact box before you spout off crap you know nothing about. Bas Rutten is an overrated little fart who’s all talk. He’d never even touch Bruce. One kick to the th-” Tranås was on Ken like a vicious Bengal tiger. Ken’s nose was gone in one chomp. Tranås spat it at the wall and sank his teeth right into Ken’s right eye. Ken grabbed Tranås’s long locks and tore out huge clumps while driving his knee into his back. Tranås chewed on undeterred. Now Ken was a cyclops. His remaining eye pulsed. Grappling! Of course! Ken got his arms around Tranås’s neck. Both went down and rolled down the stairs to the first landing. Something cracked loudly in the chaos. Tranås rolled off Ken limply, his head at an Escher-like angle. As life ebbed out, he mechanically gnawed on Ken’s Adam’s apple. Ken got to his knees, looking mostly like a ketchup fountain. His lower jaw hung by the tongue over one shoulder, which was dislocated. He clutched at what was left of his head, searching for his face. But it was gone.