Only one foe remained. Number Ten. He assumed a martial arts stance where he stood at the far side of the arena. He spun the soap-on-a-rope in front of him, ready to deflect any incoming projectiles.
I tightened my grip on my garden rake and started to move forward. I sidestepped the woman covered in mayonnaise and hopped over the eyeless corpse with the toothbrushes crammed into every orifice.
In a show of power, my opponent tore off his bloodied shirt with one hand, revealing a muscular, tattooed chest, emblazoned with the mark of the dragon, the eye of the falcon, and the left leg of the rhinoceros. He bellowed a menacing scream, and tore off his pants with the same hand, revealing more than I wanted to see.
Distracted by this, he took this opportunity to charge, shoving the frozen custard stand aside, knocking it over, and spilling out the dismembered body of Number Five. He trampled right over the still-twitching body of Number Two, who was thrown into a bathtub with a Dyson hand vacuum. Using my rake, I pole vaulted forward, leaving it behind. I drew my compact umbrella from its holster.
He landed right in front of me and I pushed the button that extended the umbrella, right at his face. He blocked this with ease and whacked me across the chops with the soap. It smelled nice, but hurt like a sumbitch. A followup strike must have broken my thumb, as I felt the umbrella slipping from my grip. Another swing right to the ribs and another from the side. I tried to block it, but the rope lashed around my arm and the soap cracked me in the temple.
The world around me was a blur of unicycles and angry tattooed cage fighters. Landed right on my back, just narrowly missing the porcupine that was stuck to the face of Number Six. I put up my hands in a futile display of defense, but the repeated whacks with the soap bludgeoned my face, chest, and arms. It felt like each impact pushed me closer and closer to the void of eternity.
I final blow from the soap across my head broke it into splinters. Undismayed, he wrapped the rope around my neck. I was nearly powerless to stop him.
"You are weak, like child. You die now." I reached out for anything, hands clawing at the bloodied dirt around me. A clump of mud, some torn cloth, a hammer, some fur..
A hammer! I grabbed it with my feeble, injured right hand and swung it up. It was a solid hit, complete with an audible whack. Unfortunately, I hit myself in the face with it. When it rains, it pours. Number Ten chuckled at this.
And then, just outside of my perception, I heard the swing of a wood flute.
Number Nine.
Stabbed Number Ten right in the neck. He gasped and gurgled, his hands reaching across the length of the flute, blood spilling from the sides, as if he was playing a tune. He slumped over.
I was certain that I killed her with the ornithopter, but no. She stumbled forward, towards me, obviously distressed by the flapping wings of the device still lodged in her side. She spoke:
"I would kill you, Number One. But my victory would be meaningless. For without you as an opponent, I would have no foe to benchmark my skills against." She stumbled again, edging closer. I tried to back away, but after my recent pummeling, I could only manage to mumble a few words.
"But...you would win."
She wrenched the flying contraption from her side and tossed it. To my surprise, it flew away. "What purpose would I have with merely winning?"
I let my hair fall to the side, covering half of my face.
"Number Nine...Life is dark chair, covered in silk from rotted coffins. If only a true purpose could be found, but no. There is no purpose. Only sadness. Come, let us sit on this dreadful furniture and dwell on this."
Number Nine paused to consider this, looked up to the sky, stumbled sideways, tripped over a unicycle, and fell into a basket filled to the brim with angry mice.
A slow clap could be heard from the observation platform above the area.
"Well done, Number One. Distracted by angst. Killed by mice. Impressive."