The Feral Peril Read Online Free PDF Page B

had worked his way through the ranks. Wearing a black mask, wide-brimmed hat, jodhpurs, boots and cape, he only lacked the sword to be the exact double of Zorro. The crowd mocked the unknown challenger when he first took the court, calling him ‘Zero’, until he started to slowly, methodically carve up the masses. And as he kept winning, a more respectful attitude overtook the onlookers.
    This masked man meant business.

Ordinarily the Bonester took care of business, stomping and chomping and whomping any player who had the audacity to inhabit the square opposite him. No doubt there’re bulk other dumb words ending in ‘omping’, but like I said, stolen thesaurus.
    There was no reason to suspect any other outcome than a total Bonester victory, until the final round when timeand tide and the inexorable intricacies of this frayed and laggardly plot meant Tony Bones-Jones and ‘Zorro’ finally met face to face, or skull to mask.
    Feel the tension? Pick up on the pressure? You could cook your breakfast egg off the hatewaves, or stir the wrath into your oatmeal mash. (Frankly I don’t care what you have for breakfast, so long as you consume it at least three suburbs away from me.)
    The Bonester wasn’t worried by this masked muppet. He’d dispatched the best Horror High had thrown at him, and they’d all limped off the court savagely beaten. Hadn’t the school ambulance burnt out its gearbox ferrying casualties off to the hospital? Hadn’t the critical-care ward exhausted all supplies of A, O, MA, R18+ and XXX–type blood? Hadn’t they run out of toe tags by lunchtime? Hadn’t the overworked school morticians gone on strike?
    Yes on all counts. So why would this masked man be any different? Death and despair awaited him, and the only choiceMasky had was whether it was fast or slow.
    TBJ had closely observed players at school all year and knew all their exceptionally dirty dodge shots and pesky lobs. Actually, I should clarify that statement: he’d observed the best players all year. He hadn’t wasted his time watching the fringe players. Maybe he should have.
    The game started off well enough, the Bonester dominating the opening set and winning service. From there he played according to his standard strategy, pushing the ball to the back of the court – deep baseline shots designed to force his masked opponent to play off the back foot, traditionally a weak spot for all but the very best.
    But this opponent was different, as if he’d stolen and studied Tony’s bony mind-map. He anticipated Tony’s every play, appearing at the baseline even before the ball arrived. And when TBJ initiated his alternative game plan, playing the ball in close with low dribbling shots, the masked man was already there too.
    Shot for shot, play for play, stroke for stroke, the two players grappled and gouged and goggled over every desperate point in that momentous grand final.
    Two players, two champions, two destinies.
    Too right.
    It was a titanic clash. Spectators could hardly follow the competitors, they moved so fast. Grimsweather, already half-blind from long-term evility, was having trouble keeping score as one player prevailed, then the other, and back again.
    One thing was starting to worry the Bonester, and it was a big one thing. Whoever this opponent was, they clearly hated the empty cavity behind his ribcage that would’ve contained his guts. Masky anticipated his every move. Kinda disturbing – like his innermosts were being monitored by X–ray machine. Even his deepest, darkest, top-secret plays were dealt with and handed back like yesterday’s rubbish wrappings.
    What was it about this opponent?Where had he trained? Why was he impervious to the Bonester’s best shots?
    Tony Bones-Jones was in danger of being buried and didn’t dig it one bit. He tried to unhinge the masked stranger with a textbook sample of ‘the