“Why do I have to do it?” I said.
“We have to be sure you’re on our side,” Warren said.
“It doesn’t work then? It’s not somebody’s?”
“It’s useless. We’re doing everyone a favour by getting rid of it, cleaning up the town.” There was a ripple of laughter, but Warren silenced the others. He paced up and down. “Fame,” he said. “They say it’s a fifteen minute thing.” He draped his arm over my shoulders. His armpit was a bit rank. “But you want more than that, don’t you, Leo? You’re proving that you’ve got what it takes to be one of us.”
I wasn’t going to be a gladiator in the real world, not when the nearest we have are boxers and wrestlers. I wanted to be like a gladiator though. I wanted other people to think I was fierce, brave, strong and worthwhile. Which was entirely different.
I dropped my bike. Took an uneasy breath. Walked over to the scooter. They couldn’t see what I could see: me, the victor, and the abandoned chariot of a defeated gladiator.
“Le-o!” they chanted again.
The moon made a shimmering target on the dark pond, like a trap door in the amphitheatre where all the destruction, the losers, the broken and defeated things go. I pushed hard against the mobility scooter and ran with it, down the slope, and let it go. The scooter tipped over into the pond. It bubbled and sank, disappeared into the black depths. I punched the air. They laughed, roared and cheered my name. It made my teeth tingle. This was being a gladiator for real.
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