Photography: Daiyu Tang / Event Organisers ((Athena))
I went back to Laveau with my mask over my face, an outfit that was showing a bit more butt than I preferred (blending in!) and a prayer under my breath. Same idea, same warehouse, same Salopri hands on the levers. But this time it was a different mess: an inflatable pool brimming with baby oil, betting slips changing hands, and a crowd already half-lit on ‘Holy Water’ which, while I didn’t participate, was certainly seeming to live up to the Backwaters credence and rumour. The rules? There weren’t any at least not ones anyone felt like enforcing as far as I could tell.
It’s probably worth dear reader to note that this article contains some not-safe-for-work photographs. But then again, since most of you love that, I expect Stanley is rubbing his hands in sales glee. Yah; boobs. Oiled Boobs. Get some you dirty heathens (then take your Holy-Water).
With the dress code for many being ‘minimal and slippery’, some contenders took that as a personal challenge. My camera fogged itself in protest at the steamier moments. I’m looking at you Isabis (and the hot ‘Boy Band’ below).
Round 1: Even the Tallest Fall (Nyx vs. Ingrid)
Nyx climbed in, with my photos showing that she was sporting something on her back that looked like it was still weeping blood. Maybe a gunshot wound, or stab wound. Still, it’s Nyx, she’s all legs and bad intentions and good fighting skill. Ingrid looked smaller (other than those hips…) but wired and ready for this fight. Smaller might be the underdog as our photos show, but with eyes up, mind working she had a chance.
The oil did what oil does: turned every grip into a slip and every plan into improvisation. Ingrid cinched her thighs and locked a crushing scissor; Nyx tried to muscle out, clawing for fabric to haul Ingrid up and smack her back down, but the squeeze starved the air out of her fight. The tap came, clean, angry, but not as far as I thought inevitable (and it was a good thing I didn’t bet the way I had called it. I would have lost. Ingrid stepped out; Nyx spat a “well done,” (and some oil) then stalked off. At least she won’t need to rub her wounds. That had happened the whole fight. Ouch.
Round 2: Sofia vs. Deseret
They waded in smiling the way snakes smile and although I think I know her as Tabitha, that would have been where I’d have put my money.. They went for it like they had a real problem. Then, suddenly, they did… Somewhere between the bellows of the crowd and the bass of the music, a blade slipped into the pool like it had a VIP pass. Was it house help with a heavy wink? Well, considering if you believe what my ears and half the dais heard there were “NO RULES!”.
I’d assumed that oil wrestling was going to involve less blood than the chairs. Now, with a blade at play and with me again underestimating the ferocity of Deseret there was knife work and bite work. Deseret sunk a feral bite to Sofia’s shoulder and wrist, blood turning the oil pink as they thrashed.
The crowd went dead quiet in that special way Laveau crowds do when play turns into prayer (for violence, sex and succor from the ‘Dark Gods’. Des tapped, wounded by the weapon more than she could wound in return. There were doctors, bandages, and of course Sofia, victorious, breathing hard, teeth shining leaning on the rail like she’d just cheated death and won the argument. But this is Laveau. You give someone the iron price, they’re likely to ask for interest in return. If you get any hints or tips, do let me know!
That’s when a ‘third fight’ nearly started outside the pool. Our ‘favourite’ resident Tori (who knows a bit about knife wounds) squared up over the knife toss. The Hostess with the smile like gasoline, beautiful but ready to erupt in flame with a spark appeared to cool tempers. Kingston’s bark cut through the noise… “Let it go, Tori. Your girl is still breathin’… Let’s get Des stitched up and sent home” and the room exhaled. Satisfying… even if I’d have lost another bet! Nice to see Kingston yelling the Laveau version of ‘Namaste’ at Tori. It was a credible security plan, yell louder than the violence and occasionally brandish something heavier than (missing) common sense. Effective at dealing with nuisance.
A medic slid in with the resigned calm of experience and a backpack full of fix-you-later. Des was conscious, bleeding, and stubborn. Around us, the betting table started paying, quick and fast, like HGH’s blood bank on HPD protest days. The espresso kid jittered holes in the air, and one poor bastard wandered off into the swamp on an accidental drug pilgrimage. Laveau never wastes a night. Just people and dreams.
Closing Time
On the catwalk, Ingrid and Eira traded apologies (really? It seemed more like ‘Fuck you apologies’ but I didn’t hear everything) and booked themselves a “Shanksgiving” knife fight in November. I wrote it down and didn’t ask whether anyone plans to bring a referee. Probably not. I’d suggest a tourniquet, but one of you sickos will bring a turkey baster I’m sure.
I had come in ready for breasts and possibly some fatal ingestion of baby oil; I left with oil on my boots and a reminder that in Laveau the line between spectacle and felony is slippery by design. Two ‘sanctioned’ fights, one near extra rumble and a promised future event with cutlery. “No gloves, no rules” wasn’t marketing, it was prophecy, and that priest that was there the whole time? I wonder what he took away from this?
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