It was pouring rain outside, and the fur on Billy's face was matted and wet. It hung down his face like an old pair of curtains someone hadn't bothered to pack up when they moved out of a house. He wondered if the water pouring over his horns would sharpen or dull them.
The sharpening post at the colosium would always become a madhouse before the first matchup. The fighters would kick and butt each other just to get a moment to sharpen their own horns or tusks. It was almost impossible to for him to wedge his way in among the other animals. He suddenly found himself wishing he had spent more time grinding them against his own steel beam at home.
Billy had been sparring for two months now, but it still felt brand new every time he stepped into the ring. The blinding white lights that shone from the ceiling of unending darkness, the smell of the hard rubber ropes that were strung around the bright yellow square. Billy had heard they chose yellow, because it would best contrast with the blood splattered on the matt night after night.
Through the fog and the rain Billy began to make out the barnyard coliseum; it loomed, wooden and ominous, above all who passed before it. His hooves made a clip clop sound on the pebble filled road bringing him to his fateful destination.
Billy didn't know who his opponent would be tonight. It might be another goat, a wild boar, or even a young bull. He just knew he'd have to give it all he had if he wanted to see tomorrow.
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