538 - (FREE TO READ) Vunak Of Antares: A Novel By James LaFond & Jeth Randolph
Chapter seven: "Knives of Scorpio" / Michael Thompson vs James Bowie
Copyright 2025 LaFond & Randolph
A Casting Darts Publishing Original
Written by LaFond & Randolph
Vunak leads “The Dirty Dozen you always wanted” against an opposing team lead by non other than Bruce Lee!
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Click to read Chapter one: “Like Water”
Click to read Chapter two: “Stardust Express”
Click to read Chapter three, part one: “The Galactic Fix is In”
Click to read Chapter three, part two: “Charon’s Song”
Click to read Chapter three, part three: “Best and the Blessed”
Click to read Chapter four: “The Dawning Of A New Sun”
Click to read Chapter five, Part one: “Upon the Scales of Right”
Click to read Chapter 5 (Part 2): “Where’s Charlie?”
Click to read Chapter 6: “自由”
“Knives of Scorpio” / Vunak of Antares #7
Afternoon: Each team advances a knife fighter, chosen by lot. Michael Thompson vs James Bowie
Vu watched as the tall frame of Michael Thompson, stood and moved in readiness to the closed gate and stared through the opening across the sands. Long hair tied back, his expression stone-like and inscrutable beneath his white beard.
‘Is he smiling?’
“Remember, Go for the de-fang and most of all, killer instinct Michael, Killer inst…”
Vu stopped mid sentence as the tall and still powerful old man slowly turned to look at him before slowly returning to quietly looking through the gate.
A few feet into the arena, Thompson’s gaze fell on a small brightly coloured insect being dragged by the sucking sand. He watched the prey’s clawed attempts at survival as it disappeared beneath the grains, until there was no trace of it’s existence.
Gratingly, the gate opened and he stepped out onto the sands, hearing it crunch and feeling it’s slight vampiric pull on his feet as he went.
In a break from decorum and already announcing Red Team’s man as Thompson slowly walked, Charon’s voice took on a Kentucky twang as it boomed forth from his glinting neck pipes, his clawed arms gesturing wildly, “Ladies and gentlemen, gather 'round, for we're fixin' to witness a spectacle like none other in this here arena, reminiscent of the wild fights of old Kentucky! Today, representin’ Red Team, a true son of the Bluegrass State – James Bowie!
“Known far and wide for his prowess with any weapon he could lay his hands on – be it pistol, rifle, or the knife that bears his very name and which you will see in his right hand!
“His legend began to take root in the sandy banks of the Mississippi, during the infamous Sandbar Fight. There, amidst the chaos, he was both shot and stabbed, yet like a true Kentuckian, he stood his ground. With a blade as fierce as the man himself, he dispatched Sheriff Norris Wright, birthing the legend of the Bowie knife, a weapon that became as celebrated as the man who wielded it.
“Forward to the Alamo, where even the grip of illness couldn't keep him from the fight. Bedridden but not beaten, in March of 1836, with the Mexican forces stormin' in, Jim Bowie, though sick as a dog, fought with the ferocity of a cornered wildcat, right there from his sickbed, until the very end.
“Let's raise our voices for a man who lived by the gun, the knife, and the sheer will to never back down.”
There as a cacophony of noise from the multitude looking down at the ellipse, air horns cut through the bedlam and smoke pored from the glow of red flares, giving a hellish feel to the sections behind Bowie.
Thompson looked at the younger man who stood in place a few metres from him.
‘I remember that book from the library with the painting of him, he looks tougher in the flesh, must be about 6’5, maybe more?’
Thompson considered the man opposite, who was slowly circling the large knife in his hand, and then emptied his mind of all thoughts of reputation or ability, just as he had so many times before in corridors and cells.
His scars ached but then faded away like the years of a life sentence as he shifted the coffin handled Arkansas Toothpick (1) in his hand and he entered that familiar serene place, that calm before the sudden clashing of movement and blood.
‘Everything is just as it is supposed to be’
Bowie gave a single nod, stating coldly, “Sir”, to which Thompson reciprocated slowly with a simple nod.
Charon now gestured to him and that mockingly inhuman voice changed again.
‘North Dakota?’ Wondered Thompson as the hideous ringmaster began to announce him to the ravenous throng (2):
“AAAANNNNDDD… for Blue Team, from the unforgivin' confines of the prison walls, where he sharpened his deadly craft, steps a man whose name echoes through them corridors of confinement like a thunderclap—Michael "Iron Mike" Thompson!”
The lower level slapped their hands onto the barrier at the front in rhythmic drumming as if signalling a war dance.
Charon continued; “A rodeo rider framed for murder, imprisoned and then recruited into the ranks of the Aryan Brotherhood on account of his prowess in close-quarter combat, he's a man carved by violence, shaped by years of survival against all odds. Over six years, he rose to lead The Brand with a ferocity that was both feared and revered, his body bearin' the marks of battles fought, with scars from bullets and blades alike.
“Beneath this mantle of terror lies a heritage as deep as the forests from which his Anishinabe (3) ancestors drew their strength. Iron Mike has spent forty-five years behind bars, a time that would break lesser men but has only forged him into the gladiator we see before ya today!
“Will he use his notorious patience to bleed his opponent slow, each cut a reminder of his unyieldin' spirit, or attempt to end the fight with the swift, decisive strike of a predator?
“He stands, a figure both legendary and tragic, against none other than James Bowie! Will Iron Mike, with his storied past and indomitable will, prevail or will he succumb to the sharpen’d back edge of Bowie's legendary knife?
“Prepare yourselves, for this ain't just a fight; it's a saga of survival, heritage, and the raw, brutal ballet of combat. Let the games begin!"
The two men stood stark beneath the suns, casting double shadows at each other as the countdown blared from the screens above their heads, defiant against the din they both started to sink their postures lower as their knives stirred to position.
The crowd bellowed and drummed;
“...3…2...1...FFFFIIIIGGGGHHHHTTTT!!!”
Bowie surged forward viciously, his knife lowered to the left and then in an instant rose towards the older man with a powerful rising diagonal backhand. Stepping outside to the right of Thompson, he then delivered a forehand slash horizontally, the huge blade slicing through the back of Thompson’s left hand as he recoiled back from the first strike, lacerating the first and second fingers to the bone.
Without stopping, Thompson’s instinct for closing the fight came alive and he stepped in from his back slip with an arcing, overhand stab. The toothpick caught Bowie square in the right brow, opening it from the nose to the temple as it skidded across the bone driving the taller man’s head savagely backward.
Stunned, Bowie staggered, desperately trying to compose himself, his left hand across his body and clamped the gaping wound to the right of his face as it poured blood into his partially exposed eye.
Without sight and on instinct alone he drove the large Kentucky blade straight vertically from it’s low position, hooking upwards in a back cut, it’s sharpened false edge seeking to end the fight there and then.
But it missed as Thompson seemed to disappear from view amidst the sting of blood that now covered Bowie’s face and flowed unchecked to his waist, his hand slipping in it’s oily slick as he attempted to pressure the head wound.
Burton silently mouthed the word ‘Now” as next to him, Vunak yelled out;
“Defang!!! Close and finish him Michael!!” forcing his face to the grill of the gate to be heard before adding;
“Go On!!”
Bowie’s blade performed a Redondo and chambered for a follow up, when the older man coldly stepped in, trapping Bowie’s upper forearm as he did so, with the bloodied edge of his left hand. He was an empty vessel performing it’s grim task without trace of emotion or doubt.
The long cruel blade stabbed remorselessly in a stiff-armed hooking movement, piercing Bowie’s neck to the spine and then continuing without stopping, to perforate like a sewing machine as it travelled down from the upper lung to the younger man’s heart.
An ecstasy of blood lust filled the arena as the few, brief seconds of combat reached conclusion, it’s collective voice accompanying Bowie’s lifeless descent to the sucking, awaiting sand at the impassive Thompson’s feet with a low gasp.
Vunak’s fist punched the air, “YYYYEEEESSSS! Yes Michael!!!” and then turning to Burton, “Those Red bastards thought they could steal Bowie first? Well look at those motherfuckers now Rich!!”
“Yes...quite, Mr Vunak”, Burton raised an eyebrow and nodded at the excited American before his demeanour darkened slightly as he turned to meet the eyes of De Soto, Shaka Zulu and the other men. A silent, shared understanding of their potential was now apparent and felt by all as the gate raised and Thompson slowly approached.
Continued next week!
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Notes:
1) A 12 – 20 inch long blade, with a dagger design. Lending itself to stabbing but also very capable of slash cuts too. Designed by knife maker James Black (May 1, 1800 – June 22, 1872) as an improvement on the original bowie knife design.
2) Louis L’Amour, born Louis Dearborn LaMoore on March 22, 1908, in Jamestown, North Dakota, was an American novelist and short story writer known for his Western novels, which he referred to as “frontier stories.” He left school at 15 and in his youth he was a traveling hobo, sailor, amateur boxer, miner, and ranch hand. He went around the world in search of work and adventure. L’Amour knew that his destiny was to become a storyteller.
His most widely known works include novels like “Hondo,” “Shalako,” and the “Sackett” series. He also wrote historical fiction, science fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. At the time of his death on June 10, 1988, in Los Angeles, California, L’Amour had published 105 works, including 89 novels, 14 short-story collections, and two full-length works of non-fiction. His books remain popular, with more than 260 million copies in print.
“It is often said that one has but one life to live, but that is nonsense. For one who reads, there is no limit to the number of lives that may be lived, for fiction, biography, and history offer an inexhaustible number of lives in many parts of the world, in all periods of time.
So it was with me. I saved myself much hardship by learning from the experiences of others, learning what to expect and what to avoid. I have no doubt that my vicarious experience saved me from mistakes I might otherwise have made—not to say I did not make many along the way.”
3) An indigenous people of the Great Lakes region of Canada and the United States.
One definition of Anishinaabe is "The good humans", meaning those who are on the right road or path given to them by the Great Spirit.