They marched in the darkness up the gravel path.  They spoke in hushed, listless tones that blended into the dry winds sweeping through the pine trees. Leading the pack was the boisterous Brad, Vegas, the second in command under Jude. Jordan followed shortly after. Moving down the line of the dozen or so camp counselors, a brick house of a young man carried an empty, ninety-gallon metal trash can over his head. Behind him, Nina and The Twins followed at the end of the line.

"Let's hurry it up, Aiden. Sorry, I meant, hurry up, Buffalo," Vegas shouted back from the front. His voice carried through the sweltering summer night air. His torch bobbed up and down illuminating just enough of him in the dark to highlight that impish smirk plastered to his revoltingly smug face.

"You're more than welcome to roll this thing up the hill yourself, asshole," Aiden shouted back straining through a forced smile.

Lane strode up a couple of paces beside Aiden, "You wanna split the weight on that thing?"

Aiden glanced over as Lane gestured to help shoulder some of the burden. The linebacker-looking boy with a well-kept, shining blonde mullet smiled and shook his head, "I appreciate it, but I've got this. It's the principle of the thing that irks me."

"I get that," Lane paced beside Aiden, waiting for a few steps before asking, "What is Tiki Tiki Fire Drum by the way?"

Aiden chuckled, "It's the most violent version of Ring Around the Rosey you've never knew you needed to play. They'll explain it up there. The presentation is part of the fun, or so I'm told."

Sure enough, as the gravel path opened up to a large clearing, Brad bellowed out, "Councilors, form a circle. Aiden, bring forth the Tiki Drum to the center."

"I know where it goes," Aiden grumbled to himself. He lugged the barrel to the center of the ring of councilors and let it drop with a thud. Without so much as a thank you from Vegas, Aiden wandered over toward an open space in the circle between a slim soccer girl, Korri, and some boy still wearing his sunglasses. Korri had been renamed Reno and everyone referred to the boy as Bozeman. Lane couldn't even recall his actual name. Bozeman hadn't said a word to anyone by the look and sound of it since his 'baptism' at the amphitheater.

"Most of you already know this, so new people listen up. I won't repeat myself," Vegas yelled. He was stalking around the circle passing out pieces of rope about thirty centimeters in length or the average span from wrist to elbow. They were terribly frayed and coarse to the touch. Everybody got one piece while Brad continued shouting.

"Two rules: don't let go of the rope and don't touch the Tiki Drum. If you should find any one of your hands ain't holding a rope, you're out. If you touch any part of your body to the sacred Tiki Drum, you're out," Vegas continued stalking around the circle. With the torch held under his chin the dim glow cast Brad in an animalistic light; a creature contained only by a timorous human fence. All fangs. All maw. Lane saw Vegas as an all-consuming hunger for competition.

Or, maybe he was just an overzealous jock who needed to be taken down a peg?

The idea crossed Lane's mind and was quickly chased away. Didn't he have enough on his plate already? Wasn't this supposed to be a vacation? Where was this "Fun" Luna had so enthusiastically promised them?

"When I blow the whistle, begin," Vegas dropped his torch into the drum. Whatever kindling had been in there instantly went up in flames. A five-meter-high pillar of fire illuminated the dark, dense forest that surrounded the upper soccer field. Vegas trotted back to the human fence and forced himself between two other co-councilors.

Whistle clenched between his toothy grin.

One sharp blow broke the chilling silence of the woods.

Nothing happened.

Not at first.

Suddenly, Lane was jerked to the left. Then, another collective jerk to the right. The circle was moving. Abruptly at first, erratic, but the pace rapidly increased until a loud CLANG followed by a yelp of pain prompted the spinning bodies to come to a staggering stop.

"Our first out goes to our least coordinated five-timer; way to go, Reno," Brad disingenuously applauded the lanky blonde, violet, and neon pink-haired girl till she was outside the circle. Korri was also from Nevada and a party girl with a rather boisterous, self-promoted reputation. But, Brad outranked her by two years as a volunteer. So, he got Vegas and Korri was stuck with the second biggest-little city.

Throwing her middle finger up, Korri laughed, "Enjoy getting your rope tugged for the rest of the night, Brad."

"I always do. Thanks. Let's keep going," Brad shouted and blew his whistle.

Again the circle spun and spun. Again, counselors collided into the metal drum or released their grip on the sandpaper rope. Lane panted for breath. His legs felt like they were on fire, but held onto the ropes for his life. Despite his sore, splintered hands and burning muscles, this actually started to feel like a fun game.

After a handful of more outs, Luna eventually met her end. She'd just barely skated by until she was tugged laterally into the Tiki Drum.

"Cloudcroft, you're done. Go ahead and sit-- W-what are you doing?" Brad stuttered.

Luna had peeled off her shirt and tossed it at Nina who had been the second one out after Kori; "I'm buying back in. Fair?" Luna thrust her hip out and folded her arms, daring a stunned Brad to say, 'No.'

Vegas cocked his head to the side and another sickening grin spread, "I'll allow it. For those of you still in, should you choose to try again, it'll cost you one article of clothing."

Lane sized up the competition; Luna was winded but as always a good sport if not a equally or more competitive than anyone Lane had known. Aiden held his own by sheer strength and size. Vegas was certainly strong but more cunning when it came to manipulating the direction of the circle. Bozeman proved to be fairly nimble, dodging the trashcan with impressive acrobatics. Finally, there was Jordan. 

Lane tensed up. A shorter blonde girl, Julia, had been at his side. Some girl with long braided silver hair had replaced her shortly after. He hadn't even realized Jordan had been right beside him for the last few rounds. She didn't glance in Lane's direction or say a word, but now he felt the heat radiating off her white-knuckle fist so close to his.

"Alright, are we all ready for the next bout?" Brad didn't wait for an answer. The moment Luna's hands regained their grip on the ropes, the whistle blew.

After what felt like half an hour of dancing around the burning metal drum, Luna finally got out. She elected not to strip down any further. Lane saw her clutching her stomach as she limped to the audience that had been seated in the grass.

Lane called out before reconnecting his ropes to Aiden; "Time out!"

"Nope, no time outs. This isn't softball," Brad shouted and blew the whistle, but Lane jerked the rope away before Aiden could grip it and reconnect the circle.

"Luna, are you okay?" Lane shouted over his shoulder.

She'd collapsed on the grass, her head in Nina's lap, but gave a weak thumbs up; "Just going to slip into a Midol coma. I'm fine. Go have fun. Avenge me," she added with a wink and a smile.

"She's fine, Roswell. Get your head out of your sister's business and back in the game," Vegas scoffed. The whistle blew once more and the circle continued its chaotic dance around the barrel of fire.

Another hour passed. Boseman had tripped over his own feet and Brad took advantage of the mistake. Tugging hard on the rope, the kid in the sunglasses nearly rammed his head into the metal drum. Bozeman barely managed to catch his bare shoulder at the last second. He didn't buy back in. He didn't have anything left to gamble with anyway. 

Most of those that remained were down to their briefs and underwear. Aiden had ditched his shirt, but unrelenting jeers from his peers discouraged him from playing a second round. With a respectful nod to Lane, the linebacker limped to where the rest of the councilors watched and waited. One of the other boys, muscular and a head taller than Aiden picked up the laters' shirt, only to toss it out of reach with a laugh, "A sail, a sail, Buffalo!"

"Wow," Aiden said breathlessly, lumbering to where his shirt had fallen, "Didn't know you bothered to read, Cole. Isn't Shakespeare a few grade levels above yours?"

"First, my new name is Olympia. Second, I went to Duke on an academic scholarship, big boy. Maybe up your insult game with a little bit of research first before you flap your fat lips at me again, yeah?"

"Expelled from Duke, I think you meant to say, yeah?" Aiden shot back over his shoulder.

Cole balled his fists, started to charge, but his peers held him back laughing all the while. Pushing a hand through his shaggy bleach blonde hair, Cole relented and sat back down in the grass. He pouted, arms crossed, and all at once that muscular bravado deflated.

Before Aiden bent over to pick up his shirt, he was surprised to find Nina, waiting. Her small hands were outstretched patiently offering up the folded fabric.

"Here," She said, "You dropped this."

"Thank you," Aiden said earnestly. Taking a seat beside Nina and Luna they watched as the final rounds were about to commence.

Only three remained; Jordan, Brad, and Lane. Brad was down to his boxer briefs, still smiling wide, toxic confidence that could asphyxiate an elephant. Lane managed to keep his black jeans on minus his shirt, shoes, socks, hat, and vest.

Jordan was completely nude. This would be her final stand. The anger radiating off her came in nearly visible waves of resentment. She still hadn't spoken a word to Lane or directly acknowledged his presence, but he felt each and every violent tug on his rope. The last round nearly ripped his whole arm right out of its socket. Part of Lane wanted to simply give her the win. With her build, strength, and sheer transparent tenacity to win, Jordan could have easily beaten Brad head to head.

Unfortunately, despite his exhaustion, Lane's primal sense of justice compelled him to be the one to take Vegas down. Or maybe it was pride?

"Let's finish this already," Jordan growled.

"Just taking in the view, sweetheart," Licking his lips before biting down on the whistle, Vegas flashed an unsettling grin at Jordan.

Lane couldn't bring himself to glance in her direction to judge how she took the senior councilor's disgusting gaze. He didn't need to either. He could feel her thrust both ropes down toward her forcing both Lane and Brad to stutter step closer to the flaming metal drum.

The whistle blew. Lane nearly lost his footing as Brad threw all his weight forward at Jordan, sending her toppling backward onto the grass. Once downed, Brad planted his foot, switched directions, and sprinted back to the Tiki Drum. Jordan was dragged feet first into the barrel. She screamed in pain as her bare toes touched the metal that had been heating up for the better part of two and a half hours. Releasing her iron grip on the ropes, the wild redhead leaped to her burnt feet. She screamed again into the woods. The second time was louder than the first, dripping with rage and frustration.

Brad offered another round of mock applause, "Nice try, Wichita."

Jordan simply threw up the bird as she bent down to gather her clothes. Her beautiful bare pearl white skin and freckles glowed in the firelight. That tight braid had come undone and once again that wild red hair flowed freely down to the small of her back. Lane was captivated. As she walked off the field, his eyes were drawn to Jordan's perfectly shaped, rounded ass, like how Giotto drew circles: flawless.

Clicking his tongue, Brad ruined the moment; "Hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave. Don't you agree, Roswell?"

With his eyes still fixated on his first crush, Lane nodded absentmindedly.

Then the whistle blew.

Lane was caught mercilessly off guard, pulled face-first into the steel drum.

He felt his lip split open.

"Fowl play!" Someone from the crowd cried out in a Parisian accent. It almost sounded like Luna, but the ringing in Lane's ears and buzzing in his brain hadn't subsided yet.

"Hey, don't blame me. Roswell nodded. A nod means ready, right, buddy?" Brad chuckled.

Reaching down to his fly, Lane peeled off his belt, unbuttoned his black jeans, and stepped out of his pants one leg at a time. He kicked his clothes to the side and gripped the rope. Without another word or movement of his head, Lane let a bloody, bitter grin spread.

Brad, for a fraction of a second, dropped his facade of machismo and looked... Terrified. Before anyone else could notice, Vegas doubled down on the manufactured bravado.

"Alright, Roswell, that's the sportsman-like attitude we're known for at Trillion Pines. Are you ready now?"

Brad was stronger. Much stronger. The senior councilor had Lane beat in reach by at least a hand length, and an inch or two in height. So, it all came down to strategy and experience. Lane knew his opponent would fight dirty. Four out of the five direct knockouts Brad was responsible for came within the first few seconds of the game. If Lane could wear him down like Mike Tyson, his endurance after the first minute should decrease rapidly.

Lane nodded.

The whistle blew.

Taking a page from Brad's own book, Lane charged straight for Brad. Instead of body checking the larger opponent, however, Lane simply spun around forcing Brad to keep his back to the Tiki Drum. The crackle of fire still raging inside the steel barrel remained the loudest sound echoing within the clearing. The councilors on the sidelines all held their collective breath as they watched a modern David battle Goliath.

Brad scoffed and pulled hard, jerking Lane to the left. Fortunately, Lane didn't offer resistance. He watched Brad closely, studied the micro-movements of his body language for the last twenty rounds, the last few hours. He knew his subject well enough. When Brad jerked hard to the right, Lane was ready. He shifted his body weight with the flow of motion, not against. With Lane intentionally throwing his weight into each move, Brad had to waste more strength and effort to over correct and stay upright.

After a dozen failed attempts of tossing Lane to the ground, Vegas' footing became compromised. He was panting for breath, trembling.

Lane dug his feet in, watched his opponent's slightest shift in body weight and muscle movement. A single twitch, a subtle flinch, Lane waited for his opening.

Brad was getting desperate.

Jeers from the crowd poked at the boy's ego; "What's taking you so long, Vegas?" and, "Thought you were stronger than that," and, "You're gonna lose to the new kid, Bradley!"

That last insult was like waving a red cape in front of a bull.

Lane found himself suddenly tossed about like a rag doll as Brad caught his second win.

Hard to the left.

Harder to the right.

Every other left and right nearly lifted Lane up off the ground. He used almost every ounce of strength to force his center of gravity down to the earth. His bare feet kicked around the cool matted grass, loose dirt, and bits of gravel. His bare legs burned as they fought against fatigue and Brad's overwhelming strength. His fingers gripped tight to the coarse rope slick with sweat and blood. Splinters dug deeper into his trembling hands. Lane's chest carried a rack of iron weights. Still, he endured.

"Roswell, your sister, she's open, right? Single? Available?" Jude panted out in almost a bark: a hyena with a sore throat. "Willing?"

That single, insulting, breath of laughter was all Lane needed.

Brad had been so busy working Lane left and right, he hadn't paid attention to where they were in relation to the barrel.

Brad hadn't noticed the increasing amount of loose dirt and rock Lane had kicked up in just the right places behind his opponent: a slippery path on previously solid ground.

Brad had assumed that Lane's muscle mass wouldn't be a match for his own, and he'd be correct. As the senior councilor braced himself for a head-on blitz. Lane jumped up and kicked his feet out into the air. His heels landed directly on Vegas's bare chest. Proving to be a solid springboard, Lane held the ropes tight and kicked back off Brad, angled himself down toward the ground. Brad may have withstood a flying kick from Lane but wasn't braced for the sudden eighty-six-kilogram weight falling back to earth he'd attached himself to.

Lane's back hit the dirt hard. Brad was forced to lean forward, clutching his end of the ropes, slipping some as he bent over; his stance compromised and top heavy.

Having pulled him down right where he wanted him, Lane focused the last of his strength into a one last powerful kick into Brad's hips

Nine years of swimming, diving, and coast guard training delivered the final blow to Brad. That force sent him stumbling backward a whole thirty centimeters into the barrel. The steel drum toppled over. Chared embers spilled out onto the dirt with a hiss. Several councilors rushed over to douse water and dirt over the burning embers. A handful of others feigned concern over Brad.

Springing to his feet with embittered glee, Brad shouted, "WHOA, what a play by Roswell! Seriously, a surprising upset. Let's give him a hand, folks." Brad clapped and exactly no one else followed suit. The wind blew through the trees. The tension remained.

Lane was still sprawled out on the ground, the wind knocked out of him for the second time in one day. He half expected some random naked girl to run up and attack him again. He'd have zero energy left to put up a fight. Standing over him now, however, was Aiden.

With a concerned grin, the linebacker asked in a whisper, "How are you doing down there, Lane?"

"Fine. Think I might stay here a bit longer. Like, forever. Forever sounds nice," Lane wheezed out.

Aiden knelt down and in a voice loud enough to reach across Spirit Lake, he hollered, "What's this? Our challenger is down for the count? He might not make it back in the ring, ladies and gents. Our reigning champ may yet pull of the win."

"Bullshit!" Vegas called out. He immediately stripped himself of his boxers and stalked back up to the barrel. Setting the extinguished steel drum upright, he added, "You tell that faker to get on his feet. I want my final round. Right? It's not over till it's over folks. Let's go!" Brad's flaccid penis flapped against his thighs as the councilor paced relentlessly, waiting for Lane to recover.

Aiden ignored Brad as he slapped his massive hand down in the dirt beside Lane; "Three. Two. One! Roswell is down. Roswell's down! Ladies and gentleman, your reigning champion, Brad, VEGAS, Aleman!" Still using his mock announcer voice, Aiden gave a half-hearted attempt to start a round of applause. Surprisingly, the others lazily joined in knowing that this meant they'd finally get to turn in for the night.

"Hooray, the cockfight is finally over. Can we all go to bed now?" Korri asked with a yawn. She was already half asleep on the grass anyway, but awake enough to whine about it.

Luna knelt down beside her brother and kissed him on the forehead, "Okay, time to get up. Time for sleep, Ursa Major."

"Sleep, good," Lane groaned and allowed his sister to help him to his feet. Luna shoved the pile of clothes she had collected into her brother's gut. Together, Lane, Luna, Nina, and Aiden followed the rest of the exhausted councilors back down the trail to their cabins.

Only Vegas and another remained. The former shouted, still naked in the darkness, "Hey, that wasn't official. This isn't over, Roswell. We have unfinished business!"

The later, a girl with long braided silvery hair watched Lane with covetous intent, and unrequited lust in her shining blue eyes.