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“Great elephant,” I sang as I approached. I pulled out my combat ukulele and strummed an elephant-friendly song: Primus’s “Southbound Pachyderm.” The instrumental intro was haunting and sad-perfect for solo ukulele. Something about her was so sad, so despondent, I felt drawn to her as a kindred spirit. Or perhaps, seeing her Colts helmet, they simply didn’t want to mess with the home team. Given her size and formidable chain-mail defenses, none of the other combatants seemed anxious to approach her. She did not seem interested in attacking anyone.
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I made my way toward the only island of calm on the field: the elephant. As any Mount Olympian custodian can tell you, ammonia is an excellent cleaning agent for monsters and other blemishes. They screamed, clawing their eyes, and began to crumble to dust. I ripped off my bandolier of medical syringes and squirted ammonia in their lupine faces. I staggered after her as best I could, but my head throbbed from the pounding country music, the jeering of the crowd, and the whine of the Formula One engines gaining speed around the track.Ī pack of wolf-headed warriors loped toward me-too many, at too close range for my bow. Meg aimed her deadly bird at the emperor’s box, slashing down anything that got in her way. (All of this, by the way, with a chair strapped to my back.) I dodged a fire-breathing horse, kicked a basketball into the gut of a gladiator, then sidestepped a lion who was lunging at a tasty-looking ostrich. Where he’d come from, I had no idea, but I sent him back to Tartarus where he belonged. I shot my arrow at the nearest threat: a Cyclops charging me and waving his club. Mildly impressive, but how was I supposed to follow her? Also, she’d just rendered useless my plan of hiding behind her. She charged away, swinging her blades at monsters and gladiators. Rather than fighting the birds, she grabbed one’s neck and swung onto its back, somehow without dying. Two of his brethren stumbled over him, creating a dangerous pile-up of feathers, legs, and razor wire. One less fortunate bird stepped on a ball and took a header, planting his sharpened beak in the turf. Twenty or thirty rained down around us, forcing the ostriches to dodge and veer. Another bag must have opened above us, or perhaps a small batch of balls had gotten stuck in the netting. The only thing that saved us? Basketballs ex machina. In my defense, I did not have much time to edit. I silently composed a new death haiku right on the spot: Big birds are evil / They charge me with razor legs / I die and it hurts.
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I wasn’t even sure Meg could defeat so many with her formidable blades. I nocked an arrow in my bow, but even if I could match Commodus’s skill, I doubted I could decapitate all six birds before they killed us.