All persons, places, and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is strictly coincidental.

St. Matthew's Island, popularly known as "St. Matt's", is one of the Lesser Antilles. It is so small that it has been referred to as "the least of the Antilles". It is a republic with universal suffrage for citizens over the age of 18. The monetary unit is the Netherlands Antilles Florin [NAF , equivalent to $US 0.56] . The languages spoken by the natives are English, Dutch, and Mamamiento (a pastiche of Yoruban, Spanish, Portuguese, French, Dutch, and English: the languages of the countries which have at one time or another ruled the tiny island and the Yoruban-speaking slaves introduced by the Spanish).

The economy of St. Matt's today is based exclusively on tourism. It is hard to imagine what the inhabitants could have lived on before, fishing, maybe ? The island is barren. The only vegetation was planted by the developers.

Aside from the usual Caribbean island leisure activities: swimming, sunbathing, fishing, scuba diving and snorkeling, what does St. Matt's have to offer the tourist? Well, there's casino gambling, nude beaches, topless nightclubs, bottomless nightclubs, and "houses of pleasure" catering to men, women, gays, lesbians, and transsexuals.

However, if you were to ask a native how to get to the fight club, you would be told indignantly that there is no such thing on the island. Blood sports are strictly illegal and strongly opposed by the government which is so permissive about sex.

The problem is that you asked the wrong question. You should have asked "How can I get to the Gentlemen's Athletic Association of St. Matthew's Island ?"

You would then be told that it is just 100 metres outside the city limits of Willemsburg on the South Point Road. With a population of 22,000, Willemsburg is a city only by courtesy. It's the capitol and there's nothing bigger on the island.

The Gentlemen's Athletic Association is impossible to miss . It is huge and octagonal, there are no other buildings near it, and the pavement ends in front of it.

Being a private club, it is open only to members and applicants for membership must be sponsored by members. "But what if I don't know any members ?" No problem ! There is a bench outside by the door on which are always seated 2 or 3 old men wearing badges saying "Sponsor." For a small gratuity, usually about NAF 100, one of them will sponsor you at the box office window. The dues are "Pay as you go" at the rate of NAF 1000 (!) per visit.

The building is a stadium with eight banks of seats surrounding an octagonal ring. During the "athletic activities", the ring is brightly lighted but the spectators are veiled in Stygian darkness. The ushers pay no attention to anything which takes place outside the ring once the lights are extinguished.

All announcements are in English. The nature of the event is stated and the participants are introduced in English. The events are: kick-boxing (no hitting above the navel), crushing of the gonads, avulsion of the gonads, and free-style lethal combat. The last of these is the most popular event and considered to justify the

NAF 1000 dues payment inasmuch as the Association is put to the expense and inconvenience of disposing of a corpse, or even, sometimes, two.

As the name implies, women are not allowed to attend or participate in the athletic events. The combatants fight in the nude, wearing no protective equipment and employing no weapons other than those they were born with. Each bout continues uninterrupted until the referee judges one of the combatants to be defeated, or, in lethal combat until one of the men is dead.

Cameras of any kind and cellular telephones are banned. There could be no legitimate reason to bring a cellular 'phone inasmuch as there is no cellular 'phone service and no tower on the island.

I always take a winter vacation to escape the wretched New England weather by fleeing to more benign climes. Since I discovered St. Matt's, it has always been my destination, especially that octagonal building on the South Point Road which is open on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights. Thus, last January, I was there on a Thursday night, when the club is less crowded.

I showed the box-office clerk my membership card and paid the NAF 1000 "dues".

My seat was in the middle of the third row of Octant 5, close to the action.

On my left was a teenager in shorts, already sporting a conspicuous boner. On my right sat a fat man with breasts, pretty obviously a eunuch. Though it wasn't dark yet, he was already fondling his limp little weenie.

At 8:00 P.M. local time, the ring was flooded with light and the seats were plunged into darkness. The combatants walked down two opposite aisles and climbed into the ring to stand opposite Octants 8 and 4. The referee entered the ring with a wireless microphone in his hand and announced the bout and the combatants names and statistics.

"Our first bout this evening is to be kick boxing. According to the Association's rules, there is to be no striking above the navel. In Octant 4, Hideki Yamashita, age 23, height 5' 5", weight 130 lbs. In Octant 8, Montezuma Johnson, age 33, height 5' 9". weight 160 lbs. The winner will receive a prize of NAF 25,000. May the better fighter prevail. FIGHT ! "

The apparent weight advantage of Montezuma Johnson was more than offset by Yamashita's agility and speed. Johnson was ponderous and slow. Doubtless, he could hit or kick very hard, if he ever connected, but Yamashita never seemed to be where Johnson's fists or feet were. Johnson's firm abdominal muscles saved him several times from a bursted bladder or ruptured intestines, as he repeatedly failed to get out of the way of a roundhouse kick in time.

The only rule was "no hitting above the navel"; there was nothing to prevent hitting an opponent from behind. Yamashita slipped behind the larger man and drove his fist into the small of Montezuma Johnson's back. The blow did not break the spinal cord, but the shock temporarily paralysed Johnson's legs. He toppled backward and tried unsuccessfully to rise, his limbs flailing ineffectually like those of a beetle turned on its back. He had to use his hands and arms to try to rise, thus preventing him from using them to protect his genitals.

While Johnson was struggling to rise, Yamashita leaped into the air and came down on one foot onto Johnson's plum-sized nads. The impact bursted the left testicle and crushed the right one. Montezuma Johnson fell back, screamed, and struggled against shock to maintain consciousness. This merely provided Yamashita with the opportunity to stamp repeatedly on Johnson's package until he was unquestionably completely emasculated.

Finally, shock overcame Johnson and he sank into a coma. Yamashita stopped stamping immediately that Johnson's eyes closed. The referee counted to ten and declared Hideki Yamashita the winner. The Association's physician, Dr. Mortimer Post, treated Montezuna Johnson for neurogenic shock and he was then transferred to a private hospital owned by the Gentlemen's Athletic Association.

After a moment's delay, two young men in their 20's, one black-haired and the other blond, of equal height and build climbed into the ring, the black-haired youth in Octant 3 and the blond on Octant 7.

The referee announced the next bout. "This bout will be an endurance contest between Pierre Branleur in Octant 3 and Heinz Wichser in Octant 7. The contestants will stand facing each other, each gripping the other's testicles with one hand and, at the bell will squeeze each other's gonads until one of them, unable to stand the pain any more, releases his grip. This gives his opponent the right to use both hands for one final squeeze. The prize is NAF 10,000."

The two fighters came out into the center of the ring and got a secure grip on each other's testicles without squeezing. Their positions were slightly awkward because Pierre Branleur was left-handed. When they both had nodded to the referee that they were ready, he rang the bell. As they squeezed as hard as they could to get the initial advantage, the muscles bulged on their forearms. Both of them disdained to scream, though it must required quite an effort not to. However, their faces were distorted into tragic masks by the pain.

Heinz Wichser looked a bit green around the gills, as if he were about to puke, but, if so, he managed not to. There was no visible sign of whether either man's balls were yielding under the pressure. In addition to the expression of pain, there was a look of strain on their faces. Their arm muscles were beginning to tremble and their bodies were drenched with sweat. Still, they hung on doggedly, unwilling to admit defeat though aware that the damage being inflicted on their gonads was cumulative and the longer they endured, the more harm would be done.

Suddenly, Heinz Wichser released Pierre Branleur's testicles and stood there with a look of silent appeal on his face. Branleur smirked, enclosed his left hand in his right, and put a mighty effort into his final squeeze. Heinz Wichser screamed, turned his head to the left, and vomited. His knees were beginning to buckle when Pierre Branleur released his scrotum which was so misshapen that no round objects could be discerned in it . It was clear to those who were as close to the action as I was that Heinz Wichser's balls had bursted. He was carried out of the ring on a stretcher.

I could smell gism and, as I looked to the left I saw that the teenager was shooting onto the floor. The fat man on my right was flailing away at a very flabby little boner and, as far as I could tell, never did cum. I stroked my own boner which was poking its way out of my shorts.

The boy leaned over toward me and whispered "Want a blow job ?"

I pulled up the left leg of my shorts so that my rod stuck out and said "Sure." I leaned back in my seat as he went down on me. The fat man on my right said quietly "You can do me next if you'd like to."

The teenager stopped sucking just long enough to say "Who the fuck would want to ?" It was obvious that he was an experienced cocksucker. He was giving me such pleasure that I missed much of the announcement of the next match and had to figure out for myself which combatant was which.

They were two men in their late in their late 20's with some kind of a grudge to settle. One was Scottish, Angus MacPherson, and the other was Portuguese, Jorge Luis Ferreira. Though both had black hair, I decided that the swarthy one was the more likely to be Portuguese.

The form of combat was to be gonadal avulsion, i.e., they would try to tear out each other's testicles. They were not allowed to grasp any other part of the body nor to strike any part of the opponent's body with any part of their own. The fight started with the two men standing about six feet apart.

When the referee shouted "Fight !" they rushed at each other, twisting their bodies to right and left to avoid the opponent's grasping fingers. They circled each other warily until the referee said "I said 'Fight !', not 'Dance !' " MacPherson's right hand darted out like a striking snake, but Ferreira was too fast for him and he jabbed at Ferreira's left hip instead .

I missed about two minutes of whatever happened next because I was cumming into the mouth of the teenager who was already jerking off again with his left hand.

When I became aware of events in the ring again, Ferreira was standing behind MacPherson holding his balls, the cords passing backward between his legs. Ferreira had his left foot on MacPherson's butt. Straightening his left leg, Ferreira pushed MacPherson forward off balance and himself backward. Thus, MacPherson's spermatic cords and scrotum were pulled from both ends at once.

It was more than flesh could endure. The cords pulled away and the scrotum tore.

MacPherson sprawled on his face. Scrambling to his feet, he found blood running down his thighs and saw a pair of testicles dangling from Jorge Ferreira's fist, the scrotum slipping off onto the canvas. Two great hernias bulged out in MacPherson's groins above his empty crotch before which a very limp penis now dangled.

While watching this action, the eunuch on the right was pumping frantically at his useless little noodle. He must have achieved some kind of an orgasm for he suddenly stopped pumping, leaned back in his seat and sighed.

Between events, I leaned over to the boy on my left and said softly "My name's Damien, Damien Peake, what's yours."

"Florestan, sounds like a fuckin' fluoride toothpaste, Florestan Fredericks"

"How old are you ?" I asked . Though he looked old enough and the local authorities aren't too fussy about statutory rape, I wanted to be sure.

"Fifteen",he answered.

"Good", I replied. "The age of consent here on St. Matt's is fourteen."

"I know." said Florestan.

"I'm in Blackbeard's Hotel, Room 69. Maybe we could get together for some more fun tomorrow. When can you get away ?"

" How appropriate" replied Florestan with a grin. "Nothing to get away from. I'm travelling alone, and I'm right down the hall from you in Room 63. My place or yours ? "

"Mine. Why don't you spend the night, then ?"

"OK"

The referee/MC came out into the center of the ring and announced."Our last event of the evening is free-style lethal combat, an event which we can't often offer. Few fighters are willing to risk death even for a prize of a million florins. Especially considering that the winner often comes out of the fight sexless, half blind, crippled, and hideously deformed so that all he can use the prize money for is medical bills and long-term nursing care.

This evening, however, we have two men who hate each and are determined to try to kill each other. Both have recently been professional wrestlers and prefer to use their wrestling nicknames. On my right is 'The Grim Reaper' and on my left,

'The Grave-digger'."

The two ex-wrestlers were costumed appropriately, The Grim Reaper in a black hooded cloak, holding a scythe, and The Grave-digger in dirty work clothes, holding a skull in one hand and a shovel in the other. As they were required to fight in the nude as the others had and with only those weapons that they were born with, they laid aside their costumes and props and posed, showing off their muscles.

Both men were huge, about 6'6" tall and weighing about 240 lbs. They were, indeed magnificently muscled and well enough hung to make horses jealous. Both had mustaches, goatees, and shoulder-length hair. The Grim Reaper's hair, however, was black while The Grave-digger's was brown.

Both men had let their fingernails and toenails grow to about 5/8 inch in length. The Grim Reaper had sharpened his to points so that they formed claws. The Grave-digger's nails were shaped like wood chisels, ideal for chopping off parts of his opponent's anatomy.

The MC/referee resumed his spiel. "The match will continue until one of the combatants is declared dead by the Association's physician, Dr. Mortimer Post. As to the rest of the rules, there are none. You are allowed to do anything which you are able to do. If there is anyone here who is liable to become ill or to faint at the sight of much blood and possibly guts, I advise you to leave now. Please do not puke on other nearby members and guests." This said, he retired to the ropes in Octant 8 and barked "FIGHT !" into his wireless microphone.

The two men circled each other, sizing each other up, looking for weaknesses. The Grim Reaper drew first blood. His left arm darted out, his clawed fingers digging four parallel bloody tracks on The Grave-digger's chest. The Grave-digger kicked at The Grim Reaper's sex, but he turned quickly enough merely to get a 5/8 by 3 inch chunk of flesh chopped out of his left thigh. Thus far they were about even.

The Grim Reaper kept raking The Grave-digger's body with his claws and getting 5/8 inch deep gouges in his legs and butt. Suddenly The Grave-digger ducked under The Grim Reaper's arms, being clawed on the shoulders as a result and drove his eight wood-chisel nails down into The Grim Reaper's genitals, slicing and tearing them from his body. Hastily, he put his opponent's severed penis into his mouth, chewed it and swallowed it, assuring that it could never be re-attached.

The Grim Reaper gave a scream of mingled dismay and rage and swept his claws across The Grave-digger's eyes, blinding him. He struck The Grave Digger in the forehead with a right jab, dazing him and then walked around behind him. The Grim Reaper unleashed a flurry of punches onto The Grave-digger's kidneys until they bursted. The pain and shock of these injuries brought The Grave-digger to the brink of collapse.

The Grim Reaper gave The Grave-digger a shove from behind and he fell forward on his bloody eyeless face. With a shriek of fury, The Grim Reaper leaped into the air and came down on one foot on the small of The Grave-digger's back. The loud "SNAP" of the Grave-digger's breaking spine could be heard throughout the arena. He gave a terrible agonized scream and then lost consciousness.

The Grim Reaper knelt on his opponent's buttocks and, reaching forward, grasped his shoulders, pulling back so that the Grave-digger's body bent back on the break in his spine and was folded back until his head rested on the backs of his knees. Lying on the canvas, folded in the middle like a jacknife, facing the lights which he could no longer see, The Grave-digger awoke and said weakly "Kill me."

Again, The Grim Reaper leaped into the air, this time alighting on his right foot

on The Grave-digger's throat, crushing his larynx and driving it back onto his spine.

Blood welled up out of The Grave-digger's mouth. He struggled desperately to breathe, the last of his life's breath bubbling up through the blood in his mangled throat with an obscene gurgling sound as he drowned in his own blood.

The Grim Reaper stepped back, blood running down his thighs from the ghastly wound in his groin. Dr. Mortimer Post stepped into the ring, wearing his stethoscope, knelt by The Grave-digger, listened for a heartbeat, and finding none, rose took the wireless microphone from the MC and announced. "I find this man to be dead."

The Grim Reaper was reeling a bit from loss of blood when the MC/referee lifted his right hand above above his head and announced "The Winner of the one million florin prize is The Grim Reaper."

Leaning on the MC, The Grim Reaper took the microphone and said "Some of you may think that I've lost more than I won. Well you're wrong. I'm a gay bottom and I don't need male sex organs, except for a prostate gland, to enjoy sex. All I need is HRT and I'll be as happy as a pig in shit." The spectators applauded as The Grim Reaper walked slowly and unsteadily out of the ring under his own power, leaving a trail of bloody footprints.