THE HIGH TABLE

TIMATHEOS OF CROTONE

The air here stinks of rust, sweat, and old violence.  Stone walls sweat like cowards — and above us? Nothing. No stars. No gods.Only flickering torches and the weight of silence.I stand barefoot on cracked stone. This is no arena of Olympus — this is a tomb built for pride.And across from me... you.Dean Bruce. Mortal muscle. Brick by brick of stubborn will.You’re built like a statue and fight like a brawl — no finesse, no poetry. Just pain.You think your fists can humble a god’s wrath?We’ll see how long flesh stands against divinity in the dark.

DEAN BRUCE

The walls are close. Low ceiling. Sweat drips like time. This place doesn’t echo — it swallows sound. Buries it.Perfect. I see you, Timatheos. All mass, all myth. You shine like a lie polished too long.But here, in this hole in the earth, there's no one to chant your name.No thunder. No father Zeus to lift you when I put you down.You’re not fighting the heavens tonight.You’re fighting me — a man with nothing to lose and everything to prove.And in this place? That’s more dangerous than any god.

TIMATHEOS OF CROTONE

They pack the shadows — these mongrels. Bare-chested, drunk on dust and violence. They slam fists on stone and chant your name and mine.But I don’t hear worship. I hear hunger.They came for blood — not heroes. The torches flicker as they scream. The ground shakes with their fever. This place — this pit — it’s no sacred battleground. It’s a furnace. And it will burn one of us down to bones. You stand across from me, steady, unreadable. You don’t blink. You don’t breathe.You’re not just here to fight. You’re here to end something.So come on then, Dean Bruce. Let these rats witness what happens when a man dares look a god in the eye.

DEAN BRUCE

They’re loud tonight. Too loud for a place this tight.Men with broken noses, women with blood on their lips. Eyes wide.They don’t cheer names — they roar futures. Mine. Yours.
One of us walks out. The other gets forgotten in the dirt.I roll my shoulders. I don’t smile.You look like a statue carved by arrogance and lightning — a body sculpted for thunder.But I know the truth : Statues crack. And thunder fades.They chant Timatheos like you’re already legend.They whisper Bruce like I’m already dead.Let’s correct both.Because down here, under the stone and screams, there are no gods.Just fists.

TIMATHEOS OF CROTONE

Your eyes don’t flinch. The crowd howls like beasts around us — bloodthirsty, blind.
I move first. A blur of mass and fury. My right fist carves through the air toward your head.You duck. You’re faster than you look. But not fast enough.I twist. My knee slams into your ribs. I hear something shift inside. You grunt.I hammer your back with both fists, drive you to the stone floor.The pit shakes. Dust rains from the ceiling.“You think darkness is yours, Bruce?” I sneer. “I was forged in it.”

DEAN BRUCE

Pain floods my ribs. I’m grounded for a heartbeat — but that’s all I give you.I grab your ankle — tight — twist.Your massive frame crashes beside me. The ground cracks beneath your shoulder. The crowd screams.I rise with purpose. My foot drives into your side. Once. Twice. Again.You roll, but slower now. Less god, more man.“You were forged in darkness,” I growl, “but I trained in it.”I slam my forearm into your neck and pin you down.You snarl. Your veins bulge. But I see it — the first flicker of doubt in your eyes.

TIMATHEOS OF CROTONE

I roar and break free. I launch up like a god reborn. My fists find your jaw — left, right, uppercut. You stagger. Spit flies. Blood hits the stone.I grab your throat. Lift you. Slam you into the wall.The crowd erupts — they want a kill. They want a myth to fall.I lean in, breath hot and heavy. “You’re strong,” I hiss. “But you’ve never been devoured by Olympus.”I raise my fist to end you—

DEAN BRUCE

I headbutt you before your fist even falls. Your nose cracks. Blood pours. You stumble.I land three rapid hooks to your ribs, feeling so mething give. You drop to a knee.I don’t stop.My knee crushes into your face. You fall to all fours. The crowd gasps — not cheering. Watching.I grab your hair. Yank your head back. You’re panting. Trembling.“You were summoned?” I whisper.“I chose this.”I slam your head into the ground. Hard. Then again.And again.

TIMATHEOS OF CROTONE

Stone bites my face. My mind spins.I taste iron. Feel the crowd fading into a dull roar.
I try to rise. My limbs won’t listen.I reach toward the torchlight — toward anything.“Zeus…” I croak. I see your shadow rising above me — not like a man. Like judgment. You grab my arm. Twist. Snap.The crowd screams.

DEAN BRUCE

Your arm hangs like broken myth.I lift you — one final time. Overhead. Like dead weight.You’re groaning. Blood runs down your chest, your nose, your legacy.“You're not immortal,” I mutter, “you’re just overdue.”I slam you down like thunder. Your body bounces once. Then lies still.  I put my hands on your temples ready to snap your neck...The crowd is silent. ...  Thunder and light...

TIMATHEOS OF CROTONE

I hear nothing. See flickers of flame and shadow.The stone beneath me feels cold. My limbs no longer move.Then… a crack of lightning — not in the pit, but inside me.A presence looms. Immense. Eternal.Zeus.I feel wind wrap around me. Light. Gold. Power.He lifts me — silent, disappointed. Not a rescue. A retrieval.The pit fades.Darkness swallows me. Olympus awaits… but not with honor.

DEAN BRUCE

I watch as lightning takes your broken body.The crowd stares in awe, in fear, in something older than belief.I don’t raise my fists. I don’t bow.I turn, bare-chested, blood-soaked, ribs cracked, victorious.They won’t chant your name anymore.They’ll remember the man who ended it.

Published: 2025-06-16, viewed 108 times.