Spotfest
Little Good was in Jeers, his usual hangout spot. The bar where nobody knows your name. Suddenly a FAT BROAD came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder. Yes, a FAT BROAD.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“I’m evil,” Little Good said.
“Sorry to hear.”
“Bugger off you fat bint.”
She huffed.
The bartender came over to talk to Little Good. “What’s the problem, fella?”
“Hey, aren’t you Las Vegas Davis? From that Cybersuplex show?”
“Yes I am. You saw it?”
“Yeah I did. Bloody awful show, mate. You’re one dumb arse.”
“I know. I had to get this job.”
“Figures. Anyway, I’ve got a pay-per-view match coming up….sometime…against Kamikazie Ken. It’s not just any kind a match. It’s not a spot. Not my dog Spot. Not my liver spot. But a spotfest supreme match.”
“Really?” Davis said, scratching his chin.
“I don’t have a bleedin’ chance in hell. The odds are all against me. Bugger, my life has just gone in the crapper of late. First Sarah dumps me. Then this. The only comfort I have is in my two titles. I hope these aren’t on the line. The odds couldn’t be stacked higher against me.”
Mark Shill’s voice suddenly boomed in: “THE STAKES…..COULDN’T, BE HIGHER!”
“Ah well. I’ve got to go,” Little Good said.
Little Good got up from the stool and headed to the door.
Las Vegas Davis picked up the phone.
“Hello, bookie man? I’ve got a hunch. I want to be this week’s tips on Little Good to win at the BOB Pay-Per-View, A Chance Would Be A Fine Thing. I know what the odds are. Thanks.”