In the City Hall, after the dog show, they started a fight. Strangers in ripped jeans and cactus squeezed into the aisles egging them on. They seemed like old friends dressed like gladiators, locked in wraps of leather, old iron. You are a radical fart said the one with oval glasses. You’re a square turd said the one in brow lines. Waving their walking sticks like sabers they repeated ancient slurs over and over: you blood-sucking pumpkin; you louse infested poppycock; you stinky manure heap; you blathering balloon of burps; you low-life sea snail; you filthy fiddlestick. Soon they were shaking each other by the throat, belching anguished gasps into each other’s eyes flush with tears to make up for the loss for words from half Nelsons. The crowd stood on the edge of time waiting for the turning point; something more extreme. They were already bored. They had seen a million gladiators before. So, the wigs came off, then the glasses. After a short headlock they were crawling the length of the hall’s cracked floor looking for their teeth. Help me find my eyes you scumbags one said, head cocked towards the raucous mob. Help me find my clothes you bastards the other repeated. No one in the pews moved. No one knew if they were real gladiators or ghosts from history dressed up for the evening news
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